AT   LOS  ANGELES 


J 


(J^f^r^Tz^  lJlA4ux 


MEMOIRS 


AND 


imi(01^  MMMi 


or 


AN  ONLY  SON, 


WHO  DIED  NOVEMBER  27,  1821 


IN  HIS  19th  year, 


WHILE  A  STUDENT  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF   GLASGOW. 


BY  THOMAS  DURANT, 


FIRST  AMERICAN  FROM  THE  SECOND  LONDON  EDITION. 

ANDOVER : 

PUBLISHED  BY  MARK  NEWMAN. 
1823. 


>    J      >    J    , 


UISTUICT    OF    MASSACHUSETTS,    TO    WIT  : 

L.  S.  District  Clerk''s  Office. 

Be  it  remembered,  (hat  on  the  fifth  day  of  June  A.  D.  1823, 
in  the  forty  seventh  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States 
of  America,  Mark  Newman,  of  the  said  district,  has  deposited  in 
this  ollice  tlie  title  of  a  book  the  right  wliereof  he  claims  as  propri- 
etor in  the  words  foliowini?,  to  wit — "  Memoirs  and  select  remains 
of  an  only  son,  who  died  November  27,  1821,  in  his  19th  year 
while  a  student  in  the  University  of  Glasgow  ;  by  Thomas  Durant, 
Poole,  Dorset  Eng." — In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of 
the  United  States,  entitled,  "  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of 
Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Cooks,  to 
the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  coj)ies,  during  the  times  therein 
mentioned  :"  and  also  to  an  Act  entitled,  "  An  Act  supplementary  to 
an  Act,  entitled,  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  se- 
curing tlie  cof)ies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and 
proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;  and 
extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  Designing,  Engraving 
and  Etching  Historical,  and  other  prints." 

JOHN  W.DAVIS, 
C7erfc  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


a 


CONTENTS. 


f- 

^.  PAGE 

His  Birth  and  Childhood 9 

i.J^is  religious  Education 19 

2His  Intellectual  Education 31 

_,His  Commencement  and  Progress  in  Latin,  French, 

'^        Greek,  and  Italian 54 

j^His   Commencement  in   writing   Themes,  at   the 

^       age  of  Eleven 60 

THEMES  : 

•^  On  (he  advantages  of  the  Study  of  History  ...  62 

w  On  the  disadvantages  of  Solitude 63 

Ql  On  Decision 65 

r    On  Polytheism 66 

(_  On  what    Religion  is  most  calculated   to  promote 

ji         the  happiness  of  individuals  ? 69 

On  Superstition 71 

On  the  Connexion  of  Ideas 79 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

His  first  Poetical  efforts,  at  the  age  of  Fourteen  84 

Translation  of  Crebiiloa 85 

On  the  Setting  Sua 86 

Imitation  of  Horace 87 

Illness  and  Death  of  his  Mother 93 

His  first  Session  at  Glasgow 106 

A  Poem,  "The  Land  of  the  Blessed."    ....  120 
Professor  Walker's  Testimony  to  his  character 

and  success  at  College 122 

His  return  in  1819,  and  his  labours  during  the  va- 
cation    126 

Prize  Essay  on  the  Tribunicial  Power  among  the 

Romans 130 

His  Return  to  College  in  1819 151 

Letters  written  during  the  Session 152 

Extract  from  his  Logic  Theme 162 

The  Dream  ;  or  Human  Misery  ;   a  fragment  .     .  174 

Professor  Jurdine's  Testimonial 192 

His  Return  Home  in  May,  1820,  and  his  employ- 
ment during  the  vacation 194 

Melville  and  his  Pupil 197 

Fragments 201 

O 

Midnight .  202 

Friends  of  Infancy  and  Youth  meeting  after  long 

separation 202 

His  return  to  College  in  1820 204 

Letters  written  during  the  Session 206 


COJfTENTS, 


ESSAYS  : 


Pack 

Essays  written  in  the  Moral  Philosophy  Class  .     .  221 

On  Virtue 221 

On  the  Immateriality  of  the  Human  Soul    .     .  228 

On  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul 237 

On  Providence,  a  Poem 243 

Professor  Myine's  Testimonial 252 

His   return   Home,  in   May,   1821,  and   his   occu- 
pations during  the  vacations 257 

His  departure  for  Scotland,  October,  1821  .     .     .  259 

Dr  Meikleham's  Testimonial 260 

A  General  Review  of  his  character 262 

His  Aunt's  Illness  and  Death 289 

His  Illness  and  Death 308 

Address  of  Condolence  from  the  Students  of  the 

Natural  Philosophy  Class 316 


ADVERTISEiMENT 


TO    THE 


AMERICAN    EDITION. 


The  American  Editor  of  this  interesting  biogra- 
phy has  thought  proper  to  omit  a  part  of  the  Essays 
and  Poems  contained  in  the  London  Edition  ;  not 
because  he  differs  in  judgment  from  the  biographer 
as  to  the  merit  of  those  juvenile  productions  ;  but 
because  he  wishes  so  to  reduce  the  size  and  the 
price  of  the  book,  that  the  circulation  may  be  as  ex- 
tensive as  possible  ;  and  because  he  thinks  it  will 
answer  the  great  end  of  this  edition  to  retain  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  those  productions  to  make  a  just  im- 
pression of  the  genius  and  early  cultivation  of  the 
extraordinary  youth  who  wrote  them.  With  the 
same  views,  the  Editor  has  omitted  a  few  notes  and 
other  passages  of  minor  consequence.  He  has  also 
given  titles  to  all  the  sections  corresponding  with 
the  Table  of  contents.  But  in  the  biography  itself 
he  has  made  no  alterations. 


X  PREFACE. 

parental  partialities,  and  who  were,  in  every  other  re- 
spect, more  competent  judges  than  himself,  had  formed 
as  high  an  estimate  of  those  talents  as  he  entertained  ; 
and  some  of  whom  had  expressed  a  wish  that  a  work 
of  this  kind  should  be  undertaken. 

The  writer  may  be  suspected  of  partiality,  especial- 
ly in  describing  the  moral  and  religious  character  of  his 
son.  It  will,  however,  be  admitted,  that  no  other  had 
such  means  of  knowing  that  character;  and  he  solemn- 
ly declares,  that  he  is  utterly  unconscious  of  present- 
ing one  feature  more  strongly  than  truth  permitted,  or 
even  demanded.  When  he  asserts  as  he  does  most  con- 
scientiously— that  he  never,  for  the  last  fourteen  years, 
endured  one  anxious  feeling  of  apprehension  respect- 
ing his  child's  future  interests  in  time  or  eternity — that, 
from  a  perfect  conviction  of  the  purity  and  strength  of 
his  religious  principles,  his  parents  could  ever  repose 
on  him  the  most  unlimited  contidence — the  public  will 
admit  that,  in  whatever  he  has  said,  he  is,  at  least,  sin- 
cere. On  this  subject  he  dares  to  appeal,  without  hes- 
itation, from  his  own  testimony,  to  the  united  opinions 
of  many — and  especially  of  those  numerous  youths,  both 
at  home  and  at  College,  with  whom  his  sou  was  most 
intimately  acquainted  ;  and  to  whom  he  necessarily'  ap- 
peared, in  his  hours  of  rehixation,  without  even  the  pos- 
sible suspicion  of  disguise.     If  tulth  be  rAKEGVRic,  the 


PREFACE.  XI 

eulogium  must  stand  :  and  the  writer  can  never  suffi- 
ciently praise  God  that,  in  this  case,  an  eulogium  can 
be  Aiirly  pronounced  ;  and  that,  amidst  recollections 
which  awaken  all  the  tenderest  and  most  painful  emo- 
tions of  his  heart,  he  has  not  to  look  back  on  one  act  of 
disobedience,  or  one  moral  delinquency  of  his  son. 
That  son  was,  unquestionably,  conscious  of  his  own  im- 
perfections before  God  ;  and  sought,  through  the  medi- 
ation of  a  Saviour,  the  pardon  of  his  sins  ;  but,  in  all 
that  was  visible  to  man,  there  was  the  evident  opera- 
tion of  that  sacred  principle,  which  taught  him  "to  de- 
ny ungodliness  and  worldly  lusts,  and  to  live  soberly, 
righteously  and  godly  in  this  present  world." 

The  Avriter  has  found  it  difficult  to  satisfy  himself  in 
making  a  selection  from  Essays  and  Poems,  which  would^ 
altogether,  fill  several  volumes,  and  which  afford  strik- 
ing evidences  of  industry,  if  not  of  taste  and  judgment. 
In  making  the  selection,  he  has  done  his  best ;  though 
he  can  confidently  assert,  that  there  are  among  the  un- 
published pieces  several  quite  equal  to  those  contained 
in  these  volumes,  and  one  superior  to  any  among  them. 


HIS    BIRTH    AND    CHILDHOOD. 

My  beloved  child,  William  Friend,  so  named  from 
his  maternal  grandfather,  was  born  January  7th,  1803. 
It  was  no  sooner  announced  to  me  that  "  a  man  child 
was  born  into  the  world,"  than  I  most  solemnly  dedica- 
ted him  to  his  Maker ;  and  from  that  day  to  the  dread- 
ful moment  in  which  I  heard  he  was  gone  beyond  the 
reach,  or  the  need  of  prayer,  I  never  once,  to  the  best 
of  my  recollection,  offered  my  supplications  to  God  in 
private,  without  distinctly  remembering  and  mentioning 
him.  Since  his  removal,  it  has  been  one  of  mj'  bitter- 
est griefs,  that  neither  he  nor  those  with  whom  he  had 
a  common  and  an  equal  interest  in  my  affections,  remain 
to  form  an  object  of  solicitude  in  such  hallowed  employ- 
ments. The  sincerity  with  which  I  so  often  made  that 
dedication,  has  now  been  put  to  a  severe  test;  and, 
though  not  without  "•strong  crying  and  tears,"  I  have 
been  enabled,  through  the  grace  of  Him  who  smote  me, 
to  say,  '•'•  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  laketh  away, 
and  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord."  The  celebrated 
.Tohn  Ilowe,  in  addressing  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Hogh- 
1 


10 

ton,*  on  an  occasion  similar  to  that  wliich  has  agonized 
my  heart,  says,  "  You  concurred  in  this  the  dedication  of 
your  son — you  covenanted  with  God  in  Christ  to  be  his 
God.  But  then  you  ought  to  consider  what  the  import 
and  meaning  was  of  that  your  covenant.  Was- it  not 
absolute  and  without  limitation,  that  God  should  be  a 
God  to  him  entirely,  and  without  reserve  ?  and  that  he 
should  be  kis^  absolutely,  and  be  disposed  of  by  him,  at 
his  pleasure  ?  Otherwise,  there  was  a  repugnancy  and 
contradiction  in  tlie  very  terms  of  your  covenant.  Is  not 
God,  the  name  of  a  being  incapable  of  limitation  ? — And 
when  he  makes  his  demand  from  us  of  what  we,  on  our 
part,  are  to  be  and  do  ;  he  demands  our  all,  absolutely  ; 
that  we  surrender  ourselves  and  ours,  whatsoever  we  are 
and  have,  to  his  pleasure  and  dispose,  without  other  ex- 
ception or  restriction,  than  by  his  promise,  he  hath  laid 
upon  himself" 

I  felt  most  deeply  the  importance  of  the  charge 
which  Providence  had  devolved  upon  me.  Not  utterly 
a  stranger  to  the  state  of  human  nature,  to  the  way- 
wardness of  the  heart,  to  the  dangers  which  beset  every 
part  of  the  path  of  life  ;  1  trembled,  lest,  through  a  de- 
fect in  his  education,  through  any  impropriety  in  our 
example,  or  through  some  foreign  influence,  he  might 
become  an  injury  to  the  world,  a  dishonor  to  his  God  : 
— and  looking  upon  him,  I  uttered  the  language  of  an- 
other father,  similarly  circumstanced  : — 

*  Dedication  to  his  "  Redeemer's  Dominion  over  the  invisible 
World,"  a  Sermon  of  almost  unequalled  vigor,  beauty  and)  ithos, 
preached  nearlj'  a  century  and  half  ago. 


It 

*■'  Now  tliou  art  listed  in  the  war  of  life, 

The  prize  immense,  and  oh  !  severe  the  strife  I 

Thou  embryo-angel,  or  thou  infant  fiend, 

A  being  now  begun,  but  ne'er  to  end, 

What  boding  fears  a  father's  heart  torment, 

Trembling  and  anxious  for  the  grand  event, 

Lest  thy  young  soul,  so  late  by  Heaven  bestowed, 

Forget  her  father,  and  forget  her  God  ! 

Lest,  while  imprison'd  in  this  house  of  clay, 

To  tyrant  lusts  she  fall  a  helpless  prey  ! 

And  lest,  descending  still  from  bad  to  worse, 

Her  immortality  should  prove  her  curse  ! 

Maker  of  souls !  avert  so  dire  a  doom, 

Or  snatch  her  back  to  native  Nothing's  gloom  !" 

DAVIS, 

These  apprehensions  of  possible  evil  did  not  destroy 
the  pleasure  which  our  lovely  boy  produced.  We  call- 
ed to  remembrance  the  promises  of  God  to  the  faith- 
ful ;  the  assistances  which  he  had  aftbrded  many  of  our 
friends  in  training  up  their  families  ;  and  the  happy  suc- 
cess which  had  crowned  labors  as  humble  as  our  own. 
They  gave,  however,  a  tone  of  deep  and  anxious  feeling 
to  our  hearts,  awakened  within  us  the  spirit  of  prayer, 
and  roused  us  to  the  exercise  of  our  judgments  respect- 
ing the  pleasing,  but  solemn  duties  assigned  us.  On 
many  particular  occasions  did  both  his  mother  and  my- 
self jointly  make  these  the  special  subjects  of  our  peti- 
tions. Nor  had  we,  in  after  life,  neither  have  I  to  this 
moment,  reason  to  doubt,  that  He,  "  who  heareth 
prayer,''  approved  and  answered  ours.  Few  can  be  ig- 
norant that  the  direct  and  immediate  influence  produced 
by  exercises  of  this  kind  on  the  mind  is  great  and  most 


12 

salutary :  they  bind  us,  in  common  consistency,  to  act  as 
we  pray.  Philosophy,  which,  on  such  subjects,  only 
skims  the  surface,  may  maintain,  that  this  is  the  sole  ef- 
fect ;  but  that  word,  on  which  I  have  long  rested  my 
hopes,  and  which  now  affords,  not  merely  my  richest, 
but  my  only  consolation,  assures  us,  that,  however  im- 
mutable the  plans  of  the  "  only  wise  God"  may  be, 
our  prayers,  when  sincere  and.  fervent,  avail  much  in 
heaven. 

Besides  the  abundant  consolation  which  flowed  to  us 
from  the  word  of  truth,  /  found  my  burden  most  mate- 
rially alleviated  by  a  knowledge  of  the  sound  sense,  cul- 
tivated understanding,  affectionate  heart  and  christian 
principle  of  his  beloved  mother ;  who  possessed,  in  a 
high  degree,  almost  every  mental  and  moral  excellency 
for  which  her  son  was  afterwards  so  distinguished.  I 
knew,  from  the  experience  of  three  years,  that  she  was 
deficient  in  no  single  qualification  of  a  "  help  meet"  for 
me  in  the  education  of  our  common  charge. 

He  passed  through  his  earliest  years,  with  no  more 
than  the  ordinary  share  of  infantile  diseases ;  which 
sometimes  alarmed  us  for  a  season,  but  never  produced 
any  lasting  fears.  We  enjoyed  liim  greatly  ;  nor  did 
either  our  tempers  or  our  principles  permit  us  to  refuse 
the  comfort  with  which  Providence  had  supplied  us  in 
the  health  and  sprighfliness  of  our  child  ;  we  were  not 
disposed  to  dash  the  cup  of  happiness  with  the  bitterly 
tormenting  inquiry,  '  How  could  we  endure  to  lose  him  ?' 
This  disposition  accompanied  us  through  life  :  and  ex- 
cept in  cases  of  real  or  apparent  danger,  neither  his 
mother  nor  myself  ever  endured,  on  this  ground,  a  mo- 


13 

ment's  anxiety.  67te,  iu  adverting  to  it,  has  often  said, 
"  The  probability  is,  that  he  will  survive  us  both  ;  and 
why  should  we  torment  ourselves  with  the  voluntary 
apprehension  of  an  evil  which  may  never  arrive  ?  God 
may  take  him  from  us  ;  '  sufficient  for  the  day  will  be 
the  evil  thereof;'  and  sufficient,  unquestionably,  will 
be  our  strength  from  above  to  bear  it  :  but  why  should 
we  not  enjoy  him  while  he  lives,  instead  of  embittering 
the  present  by  the  agonies  of  anticipation  ?  *'  It  will  be 
enough" — (Alas  I  /  find  it  so  !) — "•  it  will  be  enough  to 
endure  his  actual  death,  without  enduring  the  dread  of 
meeting  the  evil  at  every  turn  of  his  passage  through 
lite."  Thus  have  been  secured  to  me  nineteen  entire 
years  of  parental  bliss — a  larger  share,  I  fear,  than  falls 
to  the  Jot  of  many  parents  who  possess  their  children 
for  a  much  longer  time. 

We  deemed  it  imperiously  necessary  to  form,  while 
he  was  yet  in  his  infancy,  a  plan  of  future  management, 
to  begin  from  the  moment  that  he  should  emerge  from 
that  state.  It  was,  I  imagine,  little  if  any  thing,  more 
than  that  of  all  considerate  parents  ;  and  if  more  than 
ordinarily  successful  in  the  application,  it  arose  from 
the  circumstance  that  while  we  had  to  operate  upon  the 
most  favourable  materials,  the  plan  was  invariably  pur- 
sued :  I  say,  invariably^  for  I  am  not  aware,  that  it  was 
ever,  in  a  single  instance,  essentially  neglected. 

We  had  determined,  from  the  beginning,  to  act  in 
PERFECT  UNISON — and  if  there  should,  at  any  time,  occur 
an  unavoidable  difference  in  opinion,  never  to  let  him 
perceive  it.  If  1  had,  as  was  sometimes  probably  the 
case,  been  unreasonable  in  demanding  more  than  was 
1* 


14 

to  be  fairly  expected,  or  in  insisting  on  what  was,  in  his 
circumstances,  impracticable,  his  mother  was  uniformly 
silent  before  him,  and  shewed  me,  when  alone,  the  ex- 
travagance of  my  requisitions — thus  affording  me  an  op- 
portunitj'  of  averting  or  correcting  any  evil  that  might 
have  been  threatened  or  produced — without  begetting 
in  his  mind  a  notion  that  he  might  calculate  on  a  rival- 
ship  betwixt  the  sternness  of  a  father,  and  the  excessive 
indulgence  of  a  mother.  He  ever  considered  us  as  one 
— expected  an  equal  share  of  tender  affection  from  both 
— and  was  not,  I  trust,  wholly  disappointed. 

We  never  emploj'ed  the  ordinary  and  vulgar  meth- 
od of  FRIGHTENING  him  juto  obedicncc.  Nothing  but  ig- 
norance and  weakness  will  resort  to  expedients  which 
produce  in  many,  and  even  in  some  powerful  minds,  dis- 
tressing associations  which  no  future  instructions  or  rea- 
sonings can  totally  dissolve  ;  and  which  are,  not  unfre- 
quently,  the  foundation  of  mental  habits,  which  destroy 
the  entire  comfort  of  future  life,  lead  to  a  mad-house, 
or  terminate  in  suicide.  Never  to  the  moment  of  his 
entrance  upon  the  unseen  world,  did  he  know  the  tor- 
ment of  a  superstitious  apprehension. 

It  was  an  essential  part  of  our  plan  never  either  to 
DECEIVE  HIM,  Or  to  Suffer  him  to  be  deceived.  We  car- 
ried this  into  every  thing.  One  deception  discovered 
by  a  child — (and  children  are  adepts  at  making  such 
discoveries) — will  ever  shake  that  perfect  confidence 
on  which  a  parent  has  to  calculate  as  the  main  assistant 
in  a  moral  education.  On  this  we  rested  a  large  share 
of  our  hope,  and  it  never  disappointed  us.  When  about 
two  years  of  age,  he  was  afflicted  with  an  inflammation 


15 

of  the  lungs,  which  rendered  respiration  difficult.  In- 
capable of  transl'erring  so  precious  a  charge  to  other 
hands,  we  sat  up  with  him,  watched,  wept,  and  prayed 
over  hira,  as  he  lay  dozing  or  restless.  It  was  necessa- 
ry he  should  take  medicine.  This  he  refused,  saying, 
"  I  can't,  papa,  it  makes  me  sick."  1  answered,  "  My 
dear,  it  will  make  you  sick  ;  I  know  it  is  unpleasant ;  but 
it  must  be  taken.  You  will  be  the  better  for  it  after- 
wards." This  reasoning  making,  as  may  be  imagined, 
little  impression,  in  opposition  to  his  feelings^  I  deemed 
it  necessary  to  add,  in  a  tone  perfectly  understood, 
"  Unpleasant  as  it  is,  you  must  and  shall  take  it."  As  he 
never  knew  us  promise  or  threaten  in  vain,  the  case  was 
instantly  decided:  and  he  never,  from  that  time,  refused 
any  draught,  however  nauseous.  This  saved  us  much 
future  perplexity. 

He  was  never  PERMrxxED  to  carry  a  poinx  by  impor- 
TUN[XY.  We  strove  early  to  establish  in  his  mind  a  con- 
viction of  our  superior  wisdom,  and  of  a  disposition  to 
do  every  thing,  which,  in  our  judgment,  could  make 
him  happy.  "  Do  you  not  think  we  know  what  is  best 
tor  you?"  'Yes.'  "Do  you  not  know  that  we  love 
you  too  well  to  keep  from  you  any  thing  that  would 
make  you  happy?"  '  Yes.'  "•  Well,  then,  why  do  you 
ask  a  second  time  for  what  we  would  have  given  you  at 
once  if  it  had  been  proper  ?"  After  some  such  short  di- 
alogues as  this,  it  was  almost  needless  to  say  more.  He 
might,  perhaps,  a  iew  times,  have  urged  a  request,  with 
the  hope  of  subduing  us  :  but  after  giving  him  two  or 
three  practical  proofs  of  its  inefficacy,  there  never  was 
occasion  to  speak  twice.     Why  will  any  parents,  to  save 


themselves  the  pain  of  a  momentary  decision,  encour- 
age a  practice  which,  when  formed  into  a  habit,  is 
equally  injurious  to  one  party,  and  vexatious  to  the  oth- 
er !  A  child  that  can  conquer,  by  cries  or  entreaty,  once 
in  twenty  times,  will  be  sure  always  to  make  the  effort: 
for,  however  the  chances  may  be  against  him,  a  mind 
intent  on  its  object,  will  convert  the  mere  possibility  of 
success  into  a  aufhcieni  probabblity  to  justify  the  perpet- 
ual attempt. 

We  were  equally  anxiotis  never  to  be  conquered  by 
HIS  OBSTINACY.  As  he  was  to  reign  only  in  our  affec- 
tions, our  will,  when  once  announced,  was  the  law  of 
the  house.  In  cases  where  his  mind  was  capable  of 
perceiving  the  reasons  of  a  decision,  we  often  assigned 
them  ;  but  anxious  to  convince  him  that  there  always 
were  reasons,  we  demanded  an  entire  acquiescence  in 
our  determination,  whether  he  saw  its  reasonableness 
or  not;  assuring  him,  that  he  would  himself,  when  old- 
er and  wiser,  see  that  we  had  done  right.  When  about 
two  years  of  age,  the  question  was  brought  to  a  practi- 
cal issue  :  he  obstinately  refused  for  two  hours  to  com- 
ply with  a  demand  from  his  mother  to  beg  her  pardon 
for  an  offence.  She  was  inflexible  ;  and  at  length,  he 
modestly  turned  round,  submissively  fell  on  his  knees  at 
her  feet,  and,  in  the  most  penitential  accents,  said,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  mamma,  and  will  never  be  so  naughty 
again."  The  consequence  of  this  patient  decision  was 
permanent.  I  am  confident,  that  from  that  moment  to 
the  hour  of  his  death,  he  never  meditated  opposition  to 
our  will,  nor  said  or  did  a  thing  of  which  he  feared  we 
might  seriously  disapprove.     In  the  merest  trifles,  no 


17 

less  really  than  in  the  most  momentous  engagements  of 
his  life,  he  was  ever  studious  of  our  happiness  ;  and  he 
felt,  that,  in  consulting  this,  he  was  securing  his  own. 

These  remarks  may  seem  both  trifling  and  unneces- 
sary to  those  who  have  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  the 
philosophy  of  education  ;  and  who  conceive  it  to  consist 
only  in  the  whipping  and  discipline  of  a  school  and  a 
college  ;  nor,  in  truth,  do  I  entertain  much  hope  that 
they  will  derive  any  material  benefit  from  such  minute- 
ness. If  not  already  aware  that  on  these  trifling  circum- 
stances much  of  the  future  character  depends,  I  can 
scarcely  calculate  on  finding  among  them  a  suflicient 
share  of  discernment  to  perceive  the  force  of  arguments 
by  which  the  actual  importance  of  these  seeming  trifles 
can  be  demonstrated.  1  wish  to  present  before  the  pub- 
lic a  youth  of  no  ordinary  character,  equally  distinguish- 
ed by  the  brilliancy  of  his  mental  powers,  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  temper,  and  the  strength  and  steadiness  of 
his  christian  principles  : — and  it  is  not  unnatural  that  I 
should  give  in  detail  the  particulars  of  that  process  of 
education,  by  which,  under  God,  those  powers  were  de- 
veloped, and  that  entire  character  formed.  The  first 
five  or  six  years  generally  determine  that  which  consti- 
tutes the  individuality — the  leading  peculiarity^  of  the 
man  through  life.  And  he  must  have  been  a  careless 
observer,  who  has  not  perceived  the  permanence  of 
earl}'  associations  and  early  habits.  Circumstances,  in 
after  life,  may  modify  that  peculiarity,  but  they  will 
never  be  able  wholly  to  destroy  it.  And  even  the  pow- 
er of  divine  grace,  which  may  effect  a  total  moral  rev- 
olution ;  which  may  implant  principles,  that,  after   un- 


18 

folding  themselves  here,  shall  receive  their  more  com- 
plete development  in  another  world  ;  will  leave  it  to 
the  end  of  time  almost  untouched.  It  has  become  too 
intimately  a  part  of  the  mental  constitution  to  be  annihi- 
lated by  any  thing  short  of  that  solemn  event,  which 
shall  dissolve  every  earthly  tie,  and  place  us  in  a  region 
of  light  and  love,  whose  transforming  influence  shall 
leave  no  portion  of  the  character  unassimilated  to  the 
likeness  of  our  God  and  Saviour.  As  the  efficacy  of 
even  religious  principles,  in  forming  the  character,  is  so 
materially  affected  by  these  previous  associations  and 
habits,  it  is  of  immense  importance  to  the  individual  and 
to  society  that  special  attention  should  be  paid  to  the 
minuter  circumstances  of  early  life.  These  remarks 
will,  it  is  hoped,  be  deemed  sufficient  to  justify  the  past, 
or  any  future,  detail  of  particulars. 


19 


HIS    RELIGIOUS    EDUCATION, 


The  most  important  light  in  which  our  dear  child  ap- 
jteared  to  us  was  that  of  a  moral  axd  immortal  being. 
And  while  we  earnestly  prayed  for  the  advancement  of 
his  highest  interests  in  time  and  eternity,  we  knew  that 
it  were  mockery  to  offer  prayer,  did  we  not  employ  all 
the  means  in  our  power  to  enlighten,  impress,  and  guide 
him.  We  ever  felt  that  an  influence  from  heaven  was 
necessary  to  render  our  labours  effectual  ; — that  He, 
"  from  whom  cometh  every  good  and  perfect  gift,"  must 
be  the  primary  agent  in  this  great  work  ; — but  that  we 
had  to  hope  for  and  calculate  on  that  influence,  only  as 
we  added  our  endeavours  to  our  supplications.  The 
Nile,  fed  by  the  rains  of  distant  mountains,  rolls  majes- 
tically along  in  its  course  ;  rises  above,  and  spreads  over 
the  face  of  Egypt  ;  giving  to  that  land  all  its  fertility  : 
— yet  a  large  portion  of  the  effect  depends  upon  the 
husbandmen,  who  wisely  construct  their  reservoirs,  and 
so  preserve  the  precious  fluid,  that,  after  the  recession 
of  the  stream,  they  may  still  conduct  it  to  every  part; 
and  thus  conduce  to  the  production  of  that  enchanting 
scene,  which  rises  up  to  view,  with  a  rapidity  and  love- 
liness which  almost  surpass  the  charm  of  a  poetic  fic- 
tion. This  depends  wholly  on  the  Nile  :  yet  it  depends 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  Egypt,  whether  "•  the  wilder- 
ness and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad,  and  the  desert 
shall  rejoice  and  blossom  as  the  rose,"  or  remain  fruit- 


20 

less  and  unsightly  as  the  neighbouring  sands.  In  simple 
truth,  it  depends  on  the  union  of  both.  Were  the  river 
to  refuse  his  supply,  or  the  husbandmen  to  refuse  to 
avail  themselves  of  his  assistance,  there  would  appear 
neither  the  beauty  nor  the  abundance  for  which  that 
land  has,  at  certain  seasons,  been  celebrated.  And  the 
law,  which  runs  through  nature,  is  equally  fixed  in  the 
dispensations  of  grace,  "  work,  for  it  is  God  that 
works." 

Our  hearts  were  naturally  formed  to  cheerfulness  ; 
and  the  religion  of  Jesus  had  always  presented  itself  to 
our  minds  as  inexpressibly  lovely, — as  "glad  tidings  of 
great  joy."  It  was,  therefore  equally  from  inclination 
and  principle,  that  we  determined,  if  possible,  to  pre- 
sent religion  before  him  in  her  own  charming  and  at- 
tractive form.  He  never  saw  gloom  in  us  ;  and  he  soon 
learned  that  religion  was  at  once  the  inspirer  and  the 
guardian  of  our  happiness.  A  connexion,  of  great  im- 
portance to  his  future  character  and  peace,  was  thus 
early  formed  in  his  mind  between  godliness  and  pleas- 
ure. And  such  was  the  effect  of  this  happy  associatioD_, 
that  though  I  never  knew  a  human  being  who  took  a 
more  solemn  view  of  the  realities  of  eternity  than  he, 
1  am  persuaded  he  never  once  in  his  life  contemplated 
religion  without  a  feeling  of  calm  delight.  He  knew 
it  only  as  the  guide  of  life,  the  support  of  the  heart, 
and  the  cherisher  of  a  hope  full  of  immortality.  He 
had  never  felt  "  the  terrors  of  the  Lord;"  for  he  had 
never  known  himself  a  sinner  but  in  the  light  of  those 
holy  scriptures  which,  at  the  very  moment  of  shewing 
him  his  condition,  presented  that  blest  sacrifice  on  which 


21 

he  could  confidently  rest  for  everlasting  life.  But 
though  he  had  never  passed  through  those  nnental  anxi- 
eties and  depressions  which  are  found  to  give  a  pecu- 
liarly thrilling  interest  to  the  doctrine  of  salvation  by 
faith  in  the  Redeemer ;  1  have  rarely  found  any  one 
who  more  ardently  loved  that  distinguishing  truth  ;  or 
who  felt  more  dissatisfied  with  sermons  in  which  it  did 
not  form  a  prominent  feature. 

We  began  very  early  to  point  out  to  him  the  proofs 
OF  THE  EXISTENCE  OF  A  GOD.  The  steps  of  the  argument 
were  so  easy,  that  he  soon  comprehended  all  the  lead- 
ing topics  in  Paley's  Natural  Theology — a  work,  which, 
it  is  needless  to  say,  possesses  for  young  minds  all  the 
interest  of  a  novel,  by  the  variety  of  facts  it  adduces, 
and  the  happy  simplicitj'^  with  which  it  applies  them  in 
proof  of  its  point.  I  did  not  introduce  him,  till  later  in 
life,  to  Clarke's  a  priori  reasoning  on  the  same  subject. 
And,  indeed,  he  never  relished  thatgreat  writer's  "De- 
monstration." We  corresponded  and  conversed  much 
on  this  subject,  during  the  last  year:  but  he  always  con- 
sidered the  argument,  a  posteriori,  as  the  only  popular, 
and  almost  the  sole  ground  that  can  be  taken,  with 
effect,  against  an  atheist.  He  seemed  to  think  that 
what  was  conclusive  in  the  Demonstration,  though  not 
founded  on  the  method  of  induction,  was,  after  all,  only 
the  a  posteriori  argument  in  another  form  :  and  that  the 
rest,  from  our  necessary  ignorance  of  Infinity,  was  more 
fitted  to  confound  than  satisfactorily  to  demonstrate.  He 
admired,  however,  the  profoundness  of  Clarke  ;  and  was 
equally  struck  with  astonishment  at  the  acuteness  of 
Butler — first,  a  student  for  the  dissenting  ministry,  after- 
2 


22 

wards  Bishop  of  Durham — who  ranked,  at  the  age  of 
twenty  one,  among'  that  great  writer's  most  powerful 
correspondents — for  his  objections  were  too  much  in  the 
form  of  doubts  and  modest  inquiries,  to  place  him  among 
his  opponents. 

At  a  period  equally  earlj'^,  we  made  him  acquainted 

with     the    LEADING  EVIDENCES  OF  DIVINE  REVELATION,        To 

teach  him  these, — consisting,  as  most  of  them  did,  of 
facts,  which  are  as  susceptil)le  of  historical  proof  as  any 
other  facts, — we  found  to  be  no  difficult  task.  It  was, 
however,  our  great  object  to  shew  him  the  proofs 
which  the  holj^  scriptures  themselves  contain  of  their 
own  sacred  origin.  At  about  the  age  of  nine,  he  was  a 
tolerable  master  of  all  the  leading  arguments  in  Paley. 
In  future  life,  he  studied  these  evidences  with  fresh  and 
uncommon  attention  ;  and  as  he  was  unusually  acute  in 
perceiving  all  that  could  be  said  for  and  against  any  sub- 
ject ;  and  as  he  shrunk  irom  no  difficulty,  his  own  mind 
anticipated,  fairly  met,  and,  to  his  perfect  satisfaction, 
completely  conquered,  almost  every  objection  which 
the  heads  and  hearts  of  men  have  brought,  or  can  bring, 
against  the  truth.  Armed  in  (his  panoply,  and  with  a 
deep  and  experimental  feeling  of  its  importance,  he 
pursued  inquirv,  till  he  left  no  single  topic,  connected 
with  the  subject,  unexplored.  In  more  advanced  years, 
he  found  great  advantage  from  Saurin,  whose  Sermons 
of  twelve  volumes  he  read  in  French  ;  from  Butler's 
Analogy,  which  he  fairly  studied  ;  and  from  other  works 
which  afforded  materials  for  the  exercise  of  his  vigor- 
ous understanding,  as  well  as  for  the  repose  of  his 
heart. 


23 

Another  great  object  was,  to  lead  liim,  as  earlj^  as 
possible,  into  a  j^eneral  acquaintance  with  the  various 
CONTENTS  of  Divine  Revelation  ;  and  especially  to  im- 
press him  with  those  primary  truths — the  fallen  condi- 
tion of  man,  which  the  scripture  either  uniformlj'  as- 
sumes, or  distinctly  asserts — and  the  abundant  grace 
which  the  gospel  affords  for  his  recovery  from  sin,  and 
his  final  happiness.  We  were  anxious  to  put  him  in 
possession  of  a  correct  principle,  of  interpretation.  And 
this  principle  so  approved  itself  to  his  maturer  under- 
standing, that  he  ever  held  it  inviolate.  I  used  to  saj'-, 
"  My  dear,  if  God  has  spoken  to  man,  and  made  an  ex- 
plicit declaration  of  his  will,  by  persons  whom  he  has 
inspired,  our  business  is,  to  ask.  Where  is  that  commu- 
nication to  be  found  ?  This  book  claims  the  honor.  If 
God  be  its  author,  he  has  doubtless  attended  it  with 
proofs  sufficient  to  convince  an  honest  enquirer  that  it 
comes  from  him.  Examine  the  validity  of  its  claim. — 
Are  you  satisfied  ? — This  I  may  assume.  Now,  then, 
there  remains  but  one  duty  ;  and  that  is,  to  ascertain, 
by  a  fair  application  of  the  laws  of  criticism,  what  is  its 
import  ? — In  this  you  must  rest."  "  If  the  New  Testa- 
ment," says  Dr  Chalmers,  ••'  be  a  message  from  God,  it 
behoves  us  to  make  an  entire  and  unconditional  surren- 
der of  our  minds  to  all  the  duty  and  all  the  information 
which  it  sets  betore  us. — Had  no  message  come  to  us 
from  the  fountain  head  of  truth,  it  were  natural  enough 
for  every  intelligent  mind  to  take  itself  to  its  own  spec- 
ulations. But  a  message  from  God  has  come  to  us, 
bearing,  on  its  front,  every  character  of  authenticity  ; 
and   is  it  right  now,  that  the  question  of  our  faith  or  of 


24 

our  duty  should  be  committed  to  the  capricious  varia- 
tions of  this  man's  taste,  or  of  that  man's  fancy  ?"  '  Our 
maxim  !  and  our  sentiment ! '  God  has  put  an  authori- 
tative stop  to  all  this  !  He  has  spoken,  and  the  right  or 
liberty  of  speculation  no  longer  remains  to  us.  The 
question  is  now,  not,  '  What  ihinkest  thou  V  In  the  days 
of  Pagan  antiquity,  no  other  question  could  be  put, — and 
to  the  wretched  delusions  and  idolatries  of  that  period, 
let  us  see  what  kind  of  answer  the  human  mind  is  capa- 
ble of  making,  when  left  to  its  own  guidance,  and  its 
own  authority.  But  we  call  ourselves  christians,  and 
profess  to  receive  the  bible  as  the  directory  of  our 
faith;  and  the  question  in  which  we  are  concerned  is, 
'What  is  written  in  the  law  ?  How  readest  thou?  What 
sailh  the  scripture  ?'*" 

When  more  advanced  in  life — and  after  he  had 
thought  profoundly  on  this,  as  on  most  other  subjects 
submitted  to  his  attention, — he  considered  this  princi- 
ple of  interpretation  as  so  sacred,  that  rather  than  have 
violated  it  ho  would,  if  necessary  to  its  maintenance, 
have  admitted  the  monstrous  doctrine  of  transubstantia- 
tion  itself  He  more  than  once  reasoned  thus  : — "  The 
doctrine  of  transubstantiation  is  unquestionably  false. 
The  language  of  our  Lord, — '  Except  ye  eat  my  Jiesh  and 
drink  my  blood — This  is  my  Body'' — is  in  perfect  unison 
wjth  many  other  passages  as  truly  figurative,  and  equal- 
ly as  bold.  Nor  is  there  any  such  language,  except  as 
connected  with  this  subject,  which  even  Catholics  them- 
selves understand  liicrally.  It  is,  therefore,  right,  and 
even   necessary,    to   iiitcr])ret   these  texts  on  the  same 

*  Evidences  and  autlioiity  of  (he  Cliristian  Revelation. 


25 

principle  by  which  all  others  are  interpreted.  Either 
take  all  in  their  literal  sense,  or  none  :  for  there  is  no 
assignable  reason,  why  these  should  form  exceptions. 
But,"  added  he,  "  If  the  general  principle  of  rational 
interpretation  did  not  relieve  me  from  the  difficult}',  I 
would  believe,  how  mysterious  soever  the  doctrine 
might  be,  that  the  sacramental  elements  were  the  very 
body  and  blood  of  Christ ;  because  He,  who  can  neither 
err  himself,  nor  delight  to  impose  on  his  creatures,  has 
told  me  so.  Though  it  seemed  a  contradiction  to  my 
senses;  and  my  reason  might  be  ready  to  revolt  from 
it  as  an  absurdity;  1  would  rather  suppose  that  God 
wrought  perpetual  miracles  in  the  case  ;  or  resolve  the 
whole  of  my  perceptions  on  the  subject  into  sheer  ig- 
norance ;  than,  for  a  moment,  question  what  my  Saviour 
had  declared  to  be  fact."' — He  did,  1  grant,  select  aa 
extreme  case  for  his  illustration  :  but  I  am  most  delib- 
erately of  opinion,  that  the  principle  itself  is  correct  ^ 
and  that  many  grievous  errors  have  crept  into  the 
church  of  God,  from  a  disregard  to  its  truth  and  im- 
portance. This  persuasion  was  far  enough  from  crip- 
pling his  mind  in  the  investigation  of  divine  truth.  He 
brought  to  the  inquiry,  indeed,  none  of  that  daring  har- 
dihood which  sacrifices  every  canon  of  fair  interpreta- 
tion to  the  preconception  of  what  a  revelation  from 
heaven  ought  or  ought  not  to  contain  :  for,  having  once 
become  fully  satisfied  that  the  scriptures  are  from  God, 
he  sought  with  ardor,  and  he  sought  with  a  devotional 
spirit,  the  whole  will  of  God  ;  nor  did  he  seek  in  vain. 
He  was  familiar,  from  his  childhood,  with  those  "holy 
scriptures,"    which    made    him    "  wise   uuto  salvation, 


26 

through  faith  in  Jesus  Christ."  They  bore  him  up 
honorably  in  the  path  of  life,  and  they  sustained  him  in 
that  dread  moment,  when  heart  and  flesh  and  life  failed 
him. 

We  made  his  sabbaths  always  delightful,  by  contriv- 
ing to  indulge  him  with  such  lessons  and  such  engage- 
ments as  should  associate  the  idea  of  pleasure  with 
those  holy  days.  His  opinion  on  the  subject  is  preserved 
in  one  of  those  essays,  (to  which  a  more  distinct  refer- 
ence will  be  made  hereafter)  written  at  the  age  of 
eleven,  and  entitled,  "  The  pleasures  and  advantages 
of  a  religious  observance  of  the  Sabbath."  Time  and 
experience  only  strengthened  the  opinion  of  his  earlier 
days.  His  exercises  at  the  close  of  the  public  services 
were  of  peculiar  importance  to  him  ;  and  they  produc- 
ed an  effect  equally  salutary  on  his  understanding  and 
his  heart.  From  the  age  of  five,  his  mother  was  wont, 
on  the  Sabbath  evening,  to  take  him,  alone,  upon  her 
knee,  to  cause  him  to  repeat  what  he  could  remember 
of  the  sermons  which  he  had  heard  ;  and  to  pray  over 
what  he  had  recollected.  He  then  said  that  hymn  from 
Dr  Watts,  "  Lord,  how  delightful  'tis  to  see,"  &c.  The 
prospect  of  this  evening  engagement  insured  his  atten- 
tion at  the  place  of  worship  ;  and  the  success  with  which 
he  would,  when  so  young,  recapitulate  almost  every 
leading  sentiment  he  had  heard,  gratified  both  his  dear 
teacher  and  himself.  These  exercises  he  continued 
almost  till  his  beloved  mother's  death  ;  and  never  shall 
1  forget  the  manner  in  which,  when  a  boy  of  nearly  fif- 
teen, he  would  sit  upon  her  knee  and  repeat  his  hymn, 
while  his  arm  was  round  her  neck,  and  his  head  leaning 


27 

on  her  bosom,  precisely  as  (hey  had  been  when  the 
practice  commenced  in  his  childhood.  Often  have  I 
entered  their  room  at  the  close  of  these  exercises; 
with  rapture  embraced  thenj  both,  and  enjoyed,  in 
our  ardent,  holy,  mutual  aifection,  all  but  Heaven. 
At  these,  above  most  other  moments,  we  felt  ourselves 
truly  united,  and,  as  forming  part  of  "  the  whole  fami- 
ly of  heaven  and  earth."  Religion  alone  could  so  sub- 
limate our  domestic  bliss.  And  William  ever  looked 
back  on  these  scenes  as  the  sweetest  and  most  profita- 
ble hours  of  his  life. 

It  was  also  our  custom  ocoasionally  to  retire  with 
iifM — especially  on  his  birth-days — for  the  purpose  of 
making  him  the  almost  entire  subject  of  our  thanksgiv- 
ing and  prayer  ;  imploring  also  for  ourselves  that  di- 
vine assistance  which  should  enable  tts  to  discharge 
aright  our  important  duties  as  parents.  The  effect  of 
these  retirements  was  great  and  salutary.  They  ren- 
dered us,  if  possible,  dearer  to  each  other,  by  bringing 
us  into  more  immediate  contact  with  our  common  Fa- 
ther in  heaven,  and  with  our  everlasting  home.  They 
raised  within  us  a  livelier  sense  of  our  obligations  to 
Him,  and  of  our  duties  to  each  other.  I  used,  at  these 
seasons,  to  enter  into  his  circumstances  and  ours,  with  a 
minuteness  which  would  have  been  improper  at  our 
family  devotions  ;  and  I  have  good  reason  to  believe 
that  he  derived  lasting  benefit  from  these  engagements. 
His  aunt,  scarcely  less  dear  to  each  of  us  than  his 
mother  had  been,  made  up  our  trio,  after  the  melan- 
choly day  that  took  from  us  "  the  desire  of  our  eyes 
with  a  stroke."      When  it  pleased  God  to  remove  her, 


28 

in  1818,  we  daily  met,  till  her  interment,  by  the  side  of 
her  coffin  ;  and,  hand  in  hand,  knelt  and  wept,  and 
prayed  together,  as  we  had  been  accustomed  to  do  in 
other  and  happier  circumstances.  This  practice  of  re- 
tirement we  three  continued,  at  meeting  and  parting 
in  May  and  October,  when  William  left  us  to  prosecute 
his  studies  at  Glasgow,  till  the  last  solemn  evening  we 
ever  spent  together.  That  night — never  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  me — after  the  family  devotions  were  closed, 
and  before  we  retired  to  rest,  his  beloved  aunt,  and  he, 
and  I  bowed  together  before  the  throne  of  grace — min- 
gling our  joys  and  sorrows  for  the  last  time.  Oh  !  had 
we  known,  or  even  conjectured  as,  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree, probable,  what  events  were  to  follow  so  soon,  and 
in  such  rapid  succession,  what  had  that  meeting  been  ! 
Could  /  have  borne  it  ?  Could  they  1  Thank  God,  the  Fa- 
ther of  mercies,  for  our  ignorance  of  futurity  !  They  are 
gone,  and  thej'  will  not  return  unto  me  ;  but  1  shall  go 
to  them.  Our  next  meeting,  I  confidently  hope,  will  be 
before  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb  ;  where  all 
tears  shall  be  wiped  away. 

In  a  letter  of  exquisite  tenderness,  written  under 
circumstances  almost  more  affecting  than  imagination 
could  create,  is  the  following  language,  which  perfect- 
ly harmonizes  with  the  tone  of  my  own  feelings.  "On 
Thursday  last,  it  was  your  mournful  lot  to  follow  to  the 
grave  all  that  was  mortal  of  your  son,  your  only  son, 
William.  But  did  not  the  Saviour,  whom  you  serve, 
see  you  !  had  he  not  compassion  on  you  !  does  not  he 
say  unto  you,  weep  not  !  To  the  house  appointed  for  all 
living,  WE  are  on  our  march.      We  must  meet  the  ene- 


29 

my  ourselves  :  and  shall  not  the  hope  of  victory  make 
us  dry  up  our  tears,  for  those  who  have  overcome  by  the 
testimony  of  Jesus  ?— through  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  ? 
I  knew,  I  esteemed,  I  loved,  your  dear  departed  son. 
I  need  not  speak  of  his  mental  gifts — of  his  literary  ac- 
quirements—these will  be  justly  appreciated  by  many 
who  reject,  it  may  be,  the  faith  in  which  he  died.  Of 
this  faith,  my  very  dear  friend,  let  us  be  followers. 
Then  we  shall  meet  in  that  place,  where  the  Lamb, 
who  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne,  shall  feed  us,  and 
lead  us  to  living  fountains  of  water  ;  and  God  him- 
self shall  wipe  away  these  tears  from  our  eyes.  Then 
you  shall  see  your  son,  and  I  shall  see  my  father,  no 
more  to  part  for  ever."— That  meeting  shall,  indeed, 
"  turn  all  bright  again." 

William  daily  heard  the  scriptures  read  in  the  family, 
and  as  constantly  knelt  with  us  at  our  family  altar.  But 
we  felt  it  extremely  difficult  to  determine  on  the  right 
method  of  teaching  him  how  to  pray.  Though  no  ene- 
mies to  forms  of  prayer  in  the  abstract,  we  thought 
that  when  children  learn  to  pray  by  a  form,  they  too 
frequently  pass  through  the  task,  without  any  exercise 
of  the  understanding — without  attention.  At  this  time, 
Mrs.  D.  met  with  a  passage  in  Zollikofer's  Sermons, 
which  instantly  approved  itself  to  our  understandings  ; 
and  on  which  we  proceeded  to  act.  It  was  this  : — "  Let 
your  child  be  taught,  in  general,  its  relation  to  God,  its 
dependance  upon  him,  its  obligations  to  him,  Lc.  &c.  : 
then  let  it  form  a  prayer  for  itself.  This  will  require 
thought,  recollection,  views  of  the  future,"  &c.  His 
mother  would  take  him  on  her  knee,   and  say,  "  Now, 


30 

my  dear,  think  how  good  God  has  been  to  you  to-dny,  in 
continuing  to  you  your  dear  papa,  and  me,  and  aunt, 
and  other  friends  ;  in  giving  you  health,  opportunity  for 
learning,  &c.  Think  of  what  has  been  amiss  with  you. 
Consider  what  you  need, — his  protection,  his  favor,  and 
his  mercy."  This  would,  at  times,  lead  to  a  long  con- 
versation. At  length  he  would  kneel  upon  her  lap,  with 
his  face  in  her  bosom,  and  offer  his  prayers.  They 
were  at  first,  short,  singularly  simple,  but  always  con- 
ducted with  the  greatest  seriousness.  Exercise  improv- 
ed his  talents  ;  and  at  the  age  of  eight  or  nine,  he  could 
and  did  pray  with  considerable  variety,  with  facility, 
and,  occasionally,  with  pathos  and  eloquence.  At  the 
age  of  twelve,  and  thenceforward,  he  had  a  remarkable 
fluency  in  prayer,  though  it  was  never  heard  by  any 
human  being  except  his  aunt,  his  mother,  and  myself. 
On  no  occasion  could  he  be  prevailed  upon,  even  to  his 
last  hour,  to  take  a  part  beyond  that  of  reading  the 
scriptures,  or  of  reciting  a  hymn,  in  the  devotional  ex- 
ercises of  the  family.  It  was,  I  believe,  pure  modesty  ; 
but  it  was  carried  to  an  almost  criminal  length.  In  my 
occasional  absence  from  home,  he  always  devolved  upon 
his  aunt  the  task  of  conducting  family  prayer,  for  which 
he  was  himself  so  well  qualified. 

Wc  were  soon  delighted,  and  made  thankful  to  God, 
for  many  striking  indications  of  his  piety.  His  mental 
talents  were  developed  in  a  surprising  degree,  at  a  very 
early  stage  of  life  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  felt  the  pow- 
er of  religion  from  the  time  that  he  could  first  form  a 
notion  of  its  nature.  He  was  not  a  little  indebted  for 
this  to  a  young  woman,  frequently  in  the  habit  of  work- 


31 

ing  as  a  sempstress,  at  our  house.  She  had,  and  stil! 
has,  beyond  most,  the  power  of  engaging-  the  attention 
and  the  affections  of  children.  'Many  of  his  hours  were 
spent  with  her,  while  at  work  ;  and  she  often  attended 
him  to  his  bed.  Religion,  than  which  nothing  more  de- 
lighted him,  formed  their  principal  subject  of  conversa- 
tion ;  and  I  shall  never  cease  to  reflect,  with  pleasure 
and  gratitude,  on  the  circumstance,  that  that  female — 
whom  he  continued  to  love  to  his  dying  dny,  and  who 
now  mourns  his  loss,  with  a  tenderness  of  feeling  scarce- 
ly inferior  to  my  own — was  so  frequent  an  inmate  of  my 
family.  She  had  her  reward  in  the  kindness  of  my  son 
on  earth — she  will  have  it  more  completely  in  that  day 
and  in  that  world,  where  the  fruits  of  all  such  labours  of 
love  shall  be  I'ully  reaped. 

Amidst  those  early  indications  of  religion,  which  af- 
forded us  so  much  pleasure,  was  his  decided,  invariable 
regard  to  truth.  His  parents  had  his  entire  confidence  ; 
and  he  felt  no  temptation  to  decieve  us,  as  he  was  fully 
aware  that  his  happiness  and  his  woes  were  ours.  We 
had  his  affections  so  strongly  on  our  side,  that,  indepen- 
dently of  a  nobler  principle,  he  would  have  been  res- 
trained from  falsehood  by  a  regard  (o  our  feelings.  This 
may  seem  to  ascribe  to  him  a  delicacy,  a  correctness, 
and  a  strength  of  feeling  rather  unnatural,  or  even  im- 
possible, at  such  an  age  :  but  it  must  be  recollected, 
that  all  his  powers  had  an  uncommonlj'  early  develop- 
ment :  and  I  pledge  myself  that  such  reasons,  hovvf'ver 
out  of  the  ordinary  course,  did  very  soon  operate  tipnn 
his  mind.  Vvhile  we  could  calculate  on  this  operation, 
in  all  his  intercourse  with  us,   we   had  ever  studied  to 


32 

impress  him  with  a  sense  of  the  divine  presence  and 
inspection.  This  supplied  him  with  a  motive  for  speak- 
ing truth  in  his  intercourse  with  oihers  as  well  as  with 
ourselves.  And  to  no  part  of  his  character  did  we  ever 
direct  a  more  constant  or  more  earnest  attention  than  to 
this.  When  he  was  about  three  years  old,  an  aged  fe- 
male, at  whose  house  he  was  staying  for  a  day,  inform- 
ed me  that  William  had  told  a  falsehood.  As  deception 
of  any  kind  was  so  perfectly  foreign  from  all  his  habits, 
1  expressed  a  doubt  on  the  subject  ;  but  she  stated  such 
particulars  as  caused  me  to  fear  that  he  had  transgress- 
ed. I  was  thunderstruck  and  almost  distracted;  for  the 
information  seemed  to  blast  my  most  cherished  hopes. 
This  might,  I  thought,  be  the  commencement  of  a  series 
of  evils  for  ever  ruinous  to  our  peace.  I  am  not — I 
never  was — naturally  of  a  temper  to  augur  the  worst  ; 
but  the  first  grand  moral  delinquency,  even  at  such  an 
age,  must  commit  a  breach  on  the  noblest  sensibilities 
of  the  heart,  which  cannot  but  threaten  a  catastrophe 
at  which  a  parent  may  well  shudder.  Principiis  obsta, 
(resist  the  beginnings  of  evil,)  had  ever  been  our  mot- 
to ;  and  our  child  lived  long  enough  to  feel  its  impor- 
tance, and  to  bless  God  that  his  parents  had  never  depart- 
ed from  it.  I  am  not  sure  that  my  agony,  on  hearing 
of  his  death,  was  much  more  intense  than  that  which  I 
then  endured,  from  an  apprehension  of  his  guilt.  In- 
stantly, but  without  betraying  my  emotions,  I  asked  him 
what  he  had  said.  He  answered,  at  once,  in  so  artless 
and  unembarrassed  a  manner,  as  to  convince  me  that  he 
was  unconscious  of  falsehood, — that  there  must  have 
been  some  misconception  in  the  case,  and  that  my  boy 


33 

was  yet  innocent.  I  pursued  the  inquiry,  and  in  a  few 
moments  found,  to  my  inexpressible  joy,  that  he  was 
perfectly  correct  in  all  he  had  stated. 

This  was  the  only  time  in  his  life  in  which  I  had  even  a 
passing  suspicion  of  his  disregard  to  truth.  On  one  me- 
morable and  most  important  occasion,  in  1820,  to  which 
I  need  not  more  explicitly  refer,  and  which  Glasgow 
College,  with  its  late  and  present  Lord  Rectors,  will 
not  readily  forget  ;  he  received  from  a  distinguished 
professor  a  testimony  to  his  integrity  which  his  own 
heart  felt  he  merited,  but  which  that  gentleman  con- 
veyed in  language  and  with  a  manner  so  peculiarly  deli- 
cate as  to  make  upon  the  mind  of  my  son  a  deeply  fa- 
vourable impression,  which  nothing  but  death  could 
erase.  In  a  confidential  interview  with  that  professor, 
he  said,  "  Sir,   I  was  not  present  on  that  occasion ;  and 

I  can  prove  an  alibi.''''     Mr laying  his   hand    upon 

his  heart,  said,  "  Mr  D.,  you  have  removed  from  my 
mind  a  heavy  load  :  I  was  sure  you  could  not  have 
been  in  that  procession  :  but  you  need  not,  Sir,  prove 
an  alibi  ;  for  no  gentleman  in  the  University  can  re- 
quire a  proof  be3'ond  your  own  assertion.''  To  that 
learned  professor,  I  am  myself  indebted  for  the  politest 
attentions  and  the  most  tender  sympathy,  at  a  moment 
when  my  bleeding  heart  felt  the  need  of  all  the  support 
that  human  or  divine  kindness  could  administer.  And 
I  beg  him  to  accept  this  public  expression  of  my  thanks. 


34 


HIS    INTELLECTUAL    EDUCATION. 

I  HAVE  presented,  in  one  view,  the  general  history  of  his 
religious  character — though  that  will  be  found  to  run, 
more  or  less,  through  the  whole  memoir — in  order  that 
I  might  pursue  in  a  more  unembarrassed  manner,  his  in- 
tellectual progress.  It  may  easily  be  imagined,  that  pa- 
rents not  altogether  unacquainted  with  literature  them- 
selves ;  feeling  its  importance  as  a  copious  source  of  in- 
nocent pleasure,  and  as  an  instrument  of  usefulness  in 
the  world  ;*  and  marking,  with  rnpture,  the  early  indi- 
cations of  superior  talents  in  their  child,  would  apply 
themselves  with  assiduity,  to  the  cultivation  of  his  mind. 
We  were  aware  that  more  depended  on  the  manner  of 
CONDUCTING  HIS  EDUCATION,  than  on  our  best  inclinations. 
We,  therefore,  read,  and  conversed,  and  thought  much 
upon  the  subject.  While  common  observation,  and  our 
moderate  acquaintance  with  mental  philosophy,  furnish- 
ed us  with  many  useful  suggestions,  Dr.  Knox,  Miss 
Hamilton,  the  Edgeworths,  and  others,  who  had  writ- 
ten on  education,  afforded  us  most  essential  benefit.     To 

*  In  one  of  his  letters  to  me  during  his  first  session  at  Glas- 
gow, he  writes,  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  do  not  neglect  clas- 
sical literature  ;  for,  besides  its  intrinsic,  it  has  an  arbitrary  val- 
ue— so  to  speak. — It  creates  esteem  ;  esteem,  influence  ;  influence 
is  power;  and  power  will  prove,  I  am  convinced,  in  your  hands, 
the  instrument  of  beneficence.'' 


35 

the  Edg-eworths,  however,  we  were  chiefly  indebted; 
as  they  had  presented  before  the  world  the  actual 
course  of  instruction  pursued,  with  such  apparent  suc- 
cess, in  their  own  family  ;  thus  offering-  a  practical  com- 
ment on  their  theory.  A  few  years  since,  my  dear  Wil- 
liam and  I  read  together  the  Institutes  of  Quintilian  ; 
and  I  was  not  a  little  pleased  to  find  that  we  had  pursu- 
ed with  him  (from  his  cradle)  almost  the  entire  course 
of  mental  discipline,  which  that  learned  rhetorician  had 
recommended  tor  the  formation  of  a  scholar  and  an  ora- 
tor. This  circumstance  may  have  materially  influenced 
his  opinion  in  favor  of  that  author;  but  he  ever  spoke 
of  him,  as,  with  the  exception  of  Cicero,  to  whom  he 
was  devotedly  attached,  the  wisest  of  the  Roman  wri- 
ters with  whom  he  was  acquainted. 

We   ever   felt   fully    persuaded  that,  in   education, 

REGULARITY,  AND  THE   FORMATION   OF  GENERAL  HABITS,   Were 

of  great  and  essential  importance.  We  had  seen  many 
a  promising  child  spoiled — suffered  to  skim  over  the 
surface  of  things,  and  continuing  a  mere  sciolist— through 
the  absence  of  these.  We  imagined  in  theory,  what 
we  found  in  fact,  that  order  and  stf.adiness  of  applica- 
tion are  the  grand  secrets  on  which  so  much  of  excel- 
lency depends.  Having  formed  our  plan,  and  determin- 
ed on  a  strictly  domestic  education,  we  came  to  the  res- 
olution that  nothing,  over  which  we  had  control,  should 
interfere  with  the  execution  of  our  intentions.  The 
friends,  who  occasionally  visited  us,  were  always  given 
to  understand  that  our  plan  was  unalterable  ;  and  that 
they  must,  therefore,  consent  to  our  devoting, the  accus- 
tomed  hours  to  the  instruction  of  our  beloved  pupil. 


36 

His  mother  would  say,  "  If  any  can  be  oflended  with 
this,  they  will,  of  course,  cease  to  visit  us;  and  we  may 
well  dispense  with  their  visits  ;  for  the  welfare  of  the 
child  shall  not  be  sacriticed  to  propitiate  the  t'avor  of 
such  unreasonable  guests."'  Yet,  however  rigid  in  our 
adherence  to  system,  we  did  not  assign  him  too  many 
hours  of  labour — but  our  language  ever  was,  "  Work 
while  you  work  ;  play  when  you  play."  We  never 
kept  him  very  long  at  any  one  thing,  knowing  that  va- 
riety of  pursuits  would  operate  almost  as  relaxation. 
At  the  age  of  seven,  the  habit  of  regular  application 
was  completely  formed  ;  and  from  that  time  till  the  mo- 
ment of  his  last  short  illness,  mental  exertion  was  his 
delight.  Except  during  his  hours  of  play,  or  while  he 
was  engaged  in  those  amusements  which  were  deemed 
necessary  for  his  health,  his  mind  chose  and  delighted  in 
steady  and  intense  action  ;  which  was  so  much  his  ele- 
ment, that  he  never  sauntered  about  idly  inquiring, 
''What  must  I  do  next?"  for  he  had  always  before  him 
employment  sufiicient  to  occupy  his  whole  time  and  at- 
tention. 

"  The  hand  of  the  diligent  maketh  rich."  Great  tal- 
ents are  the  immediate  gift  of  God;  but  great  attain- 
ments are  the  fruit  of  personal  exertion.  It  is  often  the 
affectation,  and  sometimes  the  practical  folly,  of  men 
endued  with  genius,  to  maintain  that  the  possession  of 
uncommon  powers  renders  labour  unnecessary.  That, 
independently  of  close  application,  they  may  astonish  by 
the  occasional  displays  of  strength  and  originality,  tew 
will  deny  ;  but  without  industry,  they  must  never  ex- 
pect to  gain  permanent  and  uselul  fame  and  influence. 


37 

My  son,  if  not  at  play  or  in  conversation,  was  always  en- 
gaged, though  frequently  in  those  lighter  studies  which 
relieved,  even  while  they  occupied  him.  He  had  a  con- 
siderable taste  for  drawing,  and  has  left  me  several  bold 
and  well  executed  sketches.  In  pursuing  this  amuse- 
ment, however,  he  still  kept  his  mental  cultivation  in 
view;  and  would  often  say,  to  his  mother,  "  Now,  if 
you  will  read,  1  will  draw  ;  but  unless  ^-ou  will  do  so,  I 
cannot  afford  time  for  drawing."  He  seemed  to  give 
his  whole  mind  to  his  pencil ;  yet  he  had  the  talent  of 
attending  to  the  subject  of  the  book  so  entirely,  as  if  he 
had  been  simply  and  intently  listening  to  the  beloved 
reader.  The  fact  is  mentioned  here  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  shewing  the  habit  of  incessant,  indefatigable 
industr}',  induced  by  early  discipline,  and  on  which  his 
distinguished  acquirements  depended. 

It  must  not  be  inferred  from  this  that  he  was  debar- 
red from  necessary  play  and  various  recreations.  We 
were  always  anxious  that  he  should  promote  his  health, 
and  fit  himself  to  go  cheerfully  to  his  sedentary  pursuits, 
by  a  sufficient  quantity  of  relaxation.  Our  neighbours, 
who  often  saw  him  trundling  his  hoop,  spinning  his  top, 
and  bounding,  with  the  sprightliness  and  force  of  an  an- 
telope, from  place  to  place,  will  bear  witness  that  he 
was  not  a  confined  child — or  a  little  demure  old  man. 
His  earlier  companions,  who  read  this,  will  recollect 
that  he  was  ever  the  boldest  and  most  boisterous  boy  in 
all  their  games  and  pastimes.  And  it  is  singular  enough 
— but  it  perfectly  accords  with  his  influence  at  a  matur- 
er  age  and  among  superior  companions, — that  though 
perfectly  unassuming,  and  so  kind  that  every  plaijfdloiv 
3* 


o  «i  <■;  z"'  <s  '^i\ 


38 

was  his  friend,  he  took  the  lead  in  all  their  pursuits,  and 
retained,  without  effort,  without  dispute,  and  by  uni- 
versal consent,  the  precedency  among  them.  They 
felt,  they  knew  not  how,  that  he  was  their  superior; 
though  he  never,  from  first  to  last,  made  any  one  pain- 
fully feel  inferior  to  himself  When  the  weather  for- 
bade out-door  exercise,  his  mother,  his  aunt  and  myself 
devised  every  method  in  our  power  to  keep  him  in  ac- 
tion during  the  intervals  of' his  study.  These  means 
were  quite  effectual ;  and  no  parents  were  ever  blest 
with  a  child  possessing  a  more  robust  and  healthy  con- 
stitution. 

In  urging  him  to  mental  exertion,  we  never  appeal- 
r.D  TO  HIS  AMBITION — uBver  placed  before  him  a  vista  ot 
literary  honors,  terminated  by  something  more  substan- 
tial still.  His  heart  was  open  to  the  influence  of  those 
nobler  motives  which  operate  as  surely,  steadily,  and 
powerfully,  as  any  which  can  actuate  the  mere  scholar. 
That,  in  after  years,  he  was  not  wholly  indifferent  to 
those  academic  laurels,  which,  in  such  profusion,  adorned 
liis  brow,  will  be  easily  believed — and  it  were  a  foolish 
affectation  of  humility  to  deny.*  Yet,  I  apprehended 
there  was,  at  least,  one  who  felt  more  pride, —  perhaps, 
not  more  pleasure — on  these  occasions,  than  he  did. 
His  pleasure  was  great,  indeed  ;  for,  besides  the  natural 
feelings  created    by  such  honorable  and  public  distinc- 

*  In  a  IcUer  written  during  his  first  session,  he  says,  "  I  do 
not  ^vish  to  be  too  anxious  about  prizes:  still  they  would  not  pro- 
duce t'.uir  desired  (  ffect,if  no  palpitations  were  tiieir  consequence. 
I  well  know,  however,  that  higher  motives  should  be  the  anima- 
ting ones," 


39 

tions,  he  knew  how  much  his  success  added  to  the  hap- 
piness of  those  whom  he  most  dearl}'  loved.  In  a  letter 
of  last  spring,  he  said,  "It  is  certainly  most  gratifying- 
to  me,  but  my  chief  pleasure  arises  from  knowing  how 
much  it  gratifies  my  aunt  and  you."  In  his  earliest  days, 
we  endeavoured  to  impress  him  with  the  consideration 
— thtVt  his  time  and  talents  were  bestowed  upon  him  by 
God,  and  held  in  trust  till  that  God  should  call  him  to 
give  an  account  of  his  stewardship — that  it  was  both 
the  duty  and  the  happiness  of  a  creature  to  "  glorify  his 
Creator  in  body  and  in  spirit" — that  the  capacity  for 
usefulness  generally  bore  a  proportion  to  mental  ac- 
quirements ;  as  they  enlarged  our  views,  and  created 
for  us  an  influence  among  mankind,  which  might  be  em- 
ployed for  the  general  good.  To  these  considerations 
he  gave  his  full  assent;  and,  under  their  influence,  he 
cheerfully  concurred  with  us  in  carrying  on  to  a  state 
of  great  perfection,  the  culture  of  his  extraordinary 
powers.  And  the  last  letter  which  I  ever  received  from 
him,  in  referring  to  his  prospects  in  life,  breathes  that 
spirit  of  piety  and  christian  devotedness,  which  we  had 
endeavoured — and  I  trust  successfully  endeavoured — at 
an  early  period  to  infuse.  "  I  think,"  says  he,  in  one 
part  of  that  letter,  "if  two  lives  were  placed  before  me 
— one,  splendid,  happy,  and  useless — the  other,  solicit- 
ous, obscure,  but  still  spent  in  contributing  to  the  great 
mass  of  general  happiness  and  virtue^ — I  should  unhesita- 
tingly select  the  latter." 

One  of  our  first  objects  was,  to  fix  his  attention,  by 

AWAKENING  HIS  CURtOSITY  AND  NEVER  REPRESSING  HIS  ANX- 
IETY   TO   KNOW,    BY  CHIDING   HIM  FOR   HIS  TROUBLESOMENESS. 


40 

The  inquiries  of  children  often  contain  references  to  the 
profoundest  investigations  of  philosophy.  On  some  of 
these,  we  can  never  fullj  make  up  our  own  minds ; 
while  others  admit  of  a  moral  demonstration  ;  oral  least 
of  a  solution,  which,  if  not  absolutely  satisfactory,  is  yet 
sufficiently  probable  to  admit  of  being  ranked  almost 
among  the  elementary  principles  of  knowledge.  And  it 
belongs  to  a  judicious  parent  or  tutor  to  determine  in 
what  manner  to  treat  the  questions  with  which  he  is — 
sometimes,  indeed,  awkwardly — assailed.  Where  it 
was  possible,  by  any  simple  mode  of  statement  or  illus- 
tration, to  satisfy  his  mind,  we  never  left  him  in  the 
dark  :  but  where  the  subject  seemed  to  us  absolutely 
inexplicable,  or  not  capable  of  explanation  to  a  child  ; 
we  satisfied  him,  and  yet  urged  him  to  further  thought, 
by  saying,  "  When  older,  you  will  be  able  to  understand 
it  better  :  at  present,  you  can  know  no  more  upon  the 
subject."  His  confidence  in  us  rendered  such  a  decla- 
ration quite  sufficient ;  and  he  ceased,  for  that  time,  to 
urge  his  queries.  When  we  did  talk  with  him,  we  al- 
ways found  a  most  willing,  inquisitive  and  intelligent  au- 
ditor. We  trifled,  played,  and  laughed  with  him  ;  and 
no  child  could  more  enjoy  the  little  pleasantries  of  life 
than  he  :  but  as  to  trifle,  play  and  laugh,  were  not  to 
be  the  great  concerns  of  life,  it  was  our  constant  object 
to   store  his  mind  with   information;  and  above   all,  to 

ROUSE  HIM    TO    THE    EXERCISE    OK    ITS    POWERS.       To  thiS  he 

was  easily  and  effectually  roused.  And  this  gave  a  large 
compass  to  his  views  ;  made  him  sensible  of  his  capabil- 
ities ;  took  him  from  the  common  herd  of  imitators  ;  gave 
him  a  feeling  of  independence  ;  and  threw  into  his  modes 


41 

of  thinking-  and  expression,  that  charm  of  originality 
which,  always  natural,  often  surprised  and  delighted  us. 
At  our  table,  and  in  our  walks,  nothing  occurred — no  sin- 
gle fact  presented  itself — for  which  we  did  not  ask  a 
reason.  His  efforts  were  sometimes  successful ;  and 
when  they  were  not  so,  we  aided  him  in  the  inquiry. 
And  thus,  in  our  ordinary  conversations,  by  the  simplest 
experiments  and  illustrations,  he  attained  considerable 
knowledge — besides  forming— what  is  of  immense  im- 
portance  THE   HABIT    OF    ENDEAVOURING    TO    ACCOUNT    FOR 

EVERY    THING    HE    SAW. 

He  had  a  readiness  of  comprehension  and  a  nice- 
NE9S  OF  DISCRIMINATION,  which  are  seldom  found  in  child- 
ren so  young  as  he.  An  instance,  very  trifling  in  itself, 
but  which  most  strongly  confirms  the  remark,  just  now 
occurs  to  my  recollection.  I  was  in  the  constant  habit 
of  going  to  our  place  of  worship  at^ter  breakfast  on  the 
Sabbath  morning,  for  the  purpose  of  setting  my  watch 
by  the  clock.  On  returning  one  day,  I  perceived  a  small 
defect  in  my  black -silk  stocking,  (which  I  always  wore 
over  thin  white  cotton,)  and  took  it  off.  William,  who 
was,  then,  not  four  years  of  age,  soon  after  came  into 
the  room ;  and  smiling  at  my  piebald  appearance,  said. 
With  amazing  glee,  "  Has  papa  been  out  in  the  town  ia 
such  a  dress  ?"  His  mother  !Hi«vvered,  "  No  !  but  I  sup- 
pose you  would  have  been  highly  delighted^  if  he  had." 
He  instantly  rejoined,  '•'  No,  mammi,  not  delighted^  but 
diverted,  certainly."  She  instantly  saw  the  accuracy  of 
the  distinction,  hut,  as  if  ignorant  of  it,  said,  "  Well,  but 
is  not  that  the  same  thing  ?"  "  No,  mamma  ! — don't  you 
know  tliat  that  which  delights  is  something — something 


42 

— something — which  makes  us  very  happy:  and  that 
which  diverts  is  something'  funny,  you  know,  mamma  ?" 
He  had  never  heard  a  formal  definition  of  these  terms  ; 
but  so  great  were  his  observation  and  the  acuteness  and 
accuracy  of  his  perceptions,  that  he  had  found,  from 
common  conversation,  that  such  were  the  shades  of  dif- 
ference. Those  gentlemen  who  knew  him  when  he  was 
eighteen,  and  listened  either  to  his  arguments  in  the  so- 
cial circle,  or  to  his  essays  on  the  profoundest  subjects 
of  metaphysical  science  in  the  moral  philosophy  class, 
will  recognize  the  germ  of  those  powers  which  he  dis- 
played on  such  occasions  in  so  great  perfection. 

It  was  our  firm  purpose  never  to  suffer  a  single 
IMPROPRIETY  OF  LANGUAGE,  either  in  pronunciation,  gram- 
mar, or  the  construction  of  a  sentence,  to  pass  his  lips 
without  correction  ;  and  that  he  should,  generally,  and 
at  first  especially,  read  only  those  authors  which  were 
of  classical  authority,  and  which  might,  imperceptiblj'^, 
form  his  style  of  expression  and  composition.  He  reap- 
ed great  benefit  from  this  determination.  We  made, 
indeed,  one  exception,  which  had  the  entire  approba- 
tion of  our  understandinofs  and  our  hearts.  In  his  fifth 
or  sixth  year,  we  put  into  his  hands  John  Bunyan's  Pil- 
grim's Progress.  After  the  eulogiums  which  some  of 
the  first  English  scholars  have  pronounced  on  that  work 
of  fancy  and  of  truth,  which  weaves  into  one  narrative 
the  most  astonishingly  just  exhibitions  of  human  nature, 
with  the  clearest  views  of  evangelical  doctrines  and  du- 
ties, and  conducts  us  through  all  the  windings  of  the 
christian  course,  from  the  first  discovery  of  danger  till 
the  consummation  of  the  character  and   of  bliss ; — it  is 


43 

needless  for  me  to  add  my  feeble  testimony  to  its  worth. 
From  its  influence  in  developing  my  dear  boy's  powers, 
I  can  never  think  or  speak   of  it  without  pleasure  and 
gratitude.     He  was  aware  that  it  was  an  allegory  ;  and 
it  was  his  business,  for   weeks,  to  ascertain  its  design  in 
every  part.     This  put  his  young  mind  into  constant  and 
vigorous  action  ;  and,  by  fixing  his  attention,  and  rousing 
inquiry,  had  a  most  salutary  and  visible  influence  on  his 
intellectual   character.     He   ever  retained   a   love  and 
veneration  for  that  author :  and  though  in  future  years, 
he  sometimes  laughed   at   the  odd  conceptions  he   had 
formed   on   reading  some    parts  of  the  book,  he  never 
thought  of  it  without   pleasure.     Some   years  ago,  and 
while  William  was  a  child  of  eight   or  nine,  a   briefless 
barrister,  hopeless,  perhaps,  of  distinction  in  the    track 
of  life  which  his  injudicious  parents  had  chosen  for  him, 
diverged   from  his   course  ;  and   with   a   quixotism   for 
which  his  perfect  freedom  from   forensic  engagements 
may  account,  suddenly  became  the  champion  of  liberal 
sentiments   and   unimpassioned   Christianity,  and   threw 
down  the   gauntlet  of  defiance  to  the  whole  evangelical 
host.     In  one  of  his  unfair  and  contemptible  pamphlets, 
he  had   spoken  in  bitter   terms   of  the  ''  licentious  wri- 
tings" of  that  "  old  immortal  tinker,  John  Bunyan."  On 
reading   these  words,  my   son  burst   into  tears,  enrao-ed 
that  a  professed  scholar  could   be  found  so   ignorant   of 
Bunyan's  history  ;  or  that  the  avowed  friend  of  morali- 
ty should   be    so    base   a   traitor   to    historical   truth,  of 
which    he  could   scarcely  be   ignorant  ;  as   to   charge  a 
man  of  eminent  piety  and  virtue  with  a  design  to  vveak- 
the  claims  of  a  gracious  God  on  the  love  and  obedi- 


44 

ence  of  his  creatures.  Nor  did  he  ever  afterwards 
hear  that  barrister's  name  without  a  feeling  of  indigna- 
tion. He  could  always  allow  a  fair  attack  on  any  opin- 
ions, however  dear  to  his  heart :  but  his  anger  was  at 
all  times  roused,  by  profane  ribaldry,  by  intentional 
mis-statement,  or  by  a  ruffian  attack  on  departed  excel- 
lence. 

The  principal  works  to  which  we  first  introduced 
him  were  those  of  Mrs.  Barbauld  and  the  Aikins,  Day's 
Sandford  and  Mfrton,  Baldwin's  History  of  England,  &c. 
This  last  he  almost  committed  to  memory.  When  read- 
ing it  at  the  age  of  seven  or  eight,  for  the  fourth  or  fifth 
time,  he  was  so  struck  with  the  history  of  the  Black 
Prince,  that  he  begged  his  mamma  (for  I  was  then  in 
London)  to  let  him  read  a  larger  account.  She  took 
down  Hume,  and  he  read  the  story  with  vast  delight. 
As  he  had  promised,  before  my  departure,  that  he  would 
write  to  me  during  our  separation,  he  made  this  a  part 
of  his  communication,  which,  as  the  very  first  of  his  lit- 
erary relics,  I  shall  here  transcribe.  "  I  have  taken 
the  liberty  to  read  in  your  History  of  England.  1  have 
read  the  battles  of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  when  the  Eng- 
lish defeated  the  French  on  all  sides.  You  know  the 
particulars — but  I  must  tell  you  one  particular  ;  this  is, 
how  noble  the  Prince  of  Wales  was,  and  how  he  made 
a  feast  for  the  King  of  France,  after  he  had  conquered 
him,  and  waited  upon  him  himself;  and  he  was  exalted 
as  a  king  in  the  English  camp,  and  had  more  honor  than 
a  monarch  upon  his  own  throne.  And,  indeed,  the  sol- 
diers and  generals  of  England  have  retained  that  spirit 
ever  since.     Indeed  there  was  very  great  boldness  in 


45 

that  reign."  He  so  well  understood  his  author,  and  was 
so  pleased  with  his  style,  that  he  asked  permission  to 
read  the  whole  of  Hume.  We  granted  his  request ;  and 
here,  as  in  every  other  pursuit  of  his  life,  he  was  totas 
in  illis.  As  we  had  always  freely  conversed  before  him, 
he  had  learned  that  Hume  was  a  decided  enemy  of  Chris- 
tianity :  but  that  he  generally  attacked  it  covertly  and 
cautiously.  We  thought  William  might  not  perceive 
his  more  insidious  thrusts,  but  would  probably  be  struck 
with  what  was  obvious  and  palpable.  To  our  great 
astonishment,  however,  nothing  escaped  him;  and  I  am 
not  sure  whether  he  did  not  sometimes  imagine  indica- 
tions of  hostility  where  Hume  himself  was  intentionally 
neutral.  But  to  see  the  eagerness  with  which  he  would 
run  to  one  of  us,  on  a  supposed  discovery  of  the  histori- 
an's unf\iirness,  and  battle  with  and  confute  that  Ulys- 
ses* of  intidelitv,  was  equally  "  diverting  and  delight- 
ful." Our  hearts,  perhaps,  felt  more  pride  in  possess- 
ing such  a  mind,  than  gratitude  to  Him  who  had  formed 
it :  but  our  pleasure  was  almost  inconceivable.  In  more 
advanced  life  he  read  the  essays  of  that  learned  and  in- 
genious man,  whose  paradoxes  and  reasonings  are  in- 
tended and  wofully  calculated  to  produce  a  universal 
scepticism,  to  shake  the  foundation  of  morals,  and  to  cut 
off,  from  wretched  man,  the  last  refuge  to  which  he 
can  resort, — the  Being  and  the  perfections  of  a  God. 
Had  the  dear  youth's  life  been  spared,  he  would,  at 
some  future  period,  have  publicly  grappled  with  Hume 
or   his    living   admirers,  and    have  shewn  afresh  to  that 

*  Whom  Homer  makes  a  compound  of  energy  and  artfulness. 
4 


46 

class  of  m.inkinL],  whnt  all  candid  minds  have  ever  ad- 
mitted as  unquestionable,  that  weakness  of  understand- 
ing is  no  necessary  companion  of  a  devout  heart. 

He  soon  entered  on  Tyttler's  Elements  of  General 
History  ;  and,  after  having  become  perfect  master  of 
then'! — able,  indeed,  to  follow,  without  reference  to  the 
work  itself,  the  whole  of  that  philosophical  arrange- 
ment— he  passed  on  to  the  several  histories  of  Robert- 
son, Watson  and  others.  He  was  most  accurately  ac- 
quainted with  English  history  ;  well  understood  that 
of  modern  Europe ;  and  as  he  was  conducted,  in  his 
classical  readings,  through  all  the  principal  Roman,  and 
through  some  of  the  Greek  historians,  he  attained  a 
rather  unusual  intimacy  with  the  transactions  and  vari- 
ous governments  of  Greece,  and  of  the  world  included 
in  the  empire  of  Rome.  Almost  the  whole  of  these 
acquirements  were  made  before  he  left  home. 

As  he  had,  from  his  fifth  or  sixth  year,  displayed  a 
fondness  for  poetry,  we  put  into  his  hands  The  lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel,  with  a  miscellaneous  collection  from 
Gray,  Collins,  Akenside,  kc  ;  nearly  all  the  most  beau- 
tiful parts  of  which  he  committed  to  memory.  In  this, 
as  in  every  thing  else,  we  were  anxious  that  he  should 
UNDERSTAND  his  authors.  A  child  may  be  gratified  by 
being  able  to  repeat  poetry,  and  to  excite  the  admira- 
tion of  friends  and  strangers;  but  he  will  relish  it  and 
improve  his  own  (aste^  only  as,  by  clearly  understanding 
it,  he  can  form  a  full  conception  of  his  author's  mean- 
ing, and  perceive  the  images  which  the  poet  has  drawn. 
He  had  so  much  of  the  mart  in  his  mental  constitution, — 
perhaps,  in  the  habits  created  by  education — that  he 


47 

never  would  proceed  without  understanding  what  he 
read.  He  was  not  remarkably  ready  at  committing 
words  to  memory.  Things  once  heard  or  read,  he  seems 
never  to  have  forgotten  ;  and  even  TSDords,  when  tho- 
roughly learned,  he  generally  retained.  He  soon  attain- 
ed a  considerable  acquaintance  with  the  British  poets, 
from  Chaucer  to  the  present  time.  Of  all  these,  Miiton 
was  his  greatest  favourite.  He  began  to  read  him  reg- 
ularly through,  when  about  ten  years  old  ;  and  was, 
beyond  measure,  charmed  ; — for  he  was,  then,  sufficient- 
ly acquainted  with  the  scriptures,  classical  poetry,  and 
general  science,  to  understand  many  of  that  great  man's 
learned  allusions.  He  frequently — perhaps,  annually — 
read  the  Paradise  Lost,  afterwards  ;  and  he  said,  more 
than  once,  '^  I  always  read  it  with  fresh  pleasure  and 
'astonishment."  Nor  is  this  surprising.  Milton,  who 
seems  to  have  mastered  every  department  of  literature, 
appears  to  have  selected  his  great  poem  for  the  display 
of  all  his  stores.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  /rntw^A  of  his  mighty 
mind  ;  in  which,  anticipating  the  judgment  of  posterity, 
he  dared  to  display,  even  while  the  prejudices  of  his 
age  would  scnrcely  grant  him  an  ovation,  the  rich  spoils 
which  he  had  gathered  in  his  intellectual  excursions 
through  ages  and  countries  most  remote  from  his  own. 
If,  as  it  has  lieen  said,  the  iExcio  contains  all  the  philos- 
ophy of  Rome  in  the  time  of  Augustus  ;  the  Paradise 
Lost  may  be  said  to  have  concentrated  almost  all  that 
was  known  in  the  age  of  our  great  epic  poet.  As  my 
son's  own  field  of  intellectual  vision  enlarged,  he  saw 
more  clearly,  at  every  perusal,  the  research,  and  the 
beauty  of  this  author.      To  the  poets,  were  added  tlic 


48 

British  Essayists;  among  whom,  from  the  purity  of  his 
moral  sentiments,  the  originahty  of  his  thoughts,  and 
the  strength  of  his  diction,  Johnson  ever  stood  foremost 
in  his  opinion. 

His  advances  in  general  knowledge  were  stead}-^,  rapid, 
astonishing.  His  spare  hours  were  filled  up  with  books 
of  heraldry,  which  subject  he  had  fairly  studied — with 
old  French  and  English  writers,  as  Froissart,  Robert  of 
Gloucester,  Langtoff,  &,c.  which  he  read  through  and 
through,  before  he  was  fifteen — and  with  the  passing 
literature  of  the  day,  to  which  he  gave  quite  sufficient 
attention.  His  copia  verboruin,  and  his  chaste  and  elo- 
quent language,  at  a  very  early  age,  were  remarkable  ; 
of  which  proofs  will  soon  be  presented,  from  essajs  be- 
gun at  the  age  of  eleven.  He  never  learned  English 
grammar :  but  as  he  was  almost  constantly  our  compan- 
ion ;  never  heard  any  grammatical  inaccuracies  among 
those  with  whom  he  habitually  associated  ;  and  read 
only  the  best  authors;  he  spoke  and  wrote  English  cor- 
rectly from  habit.  His  Latin  tarnished  him  sufficiently 
with  the  principles  of  universal  grammar;  and  his  own 
observation,  with  a  reading  or  two  of  Murray's  Gram- 
mar, supplied  him  with  the  peculiarities  of  his  own 
tongue. 

His  powers  of'composition  and  speaking  were,  as  he 
ever  after  thought  and  said,  materially  improved  by  a 
very  trifling  circumstance.  Most  of  his  young  friends 
went  early  to  boarding  schools  ;  and,  as  they  were  at 
home  only  during  the  holy  days,  he  had  not  always  a 
companion  of  his  own  age.  From  the  habitual  arrange- 
inent   of  my  own   hours,  /  could  not  often  walk  with 


49 

him  from  twelve  till  one ;  and  his  helored  mother  and 
aunt  were  sometimes  similarly  circumstanced.  At  such 
seasons,  when  the  weather  was  luie,  he  would  go  into 
the  garden,  take  a  stick,  and  march  about  with  unrelax- 
ing  gravity,  speaking  in  the  most  energetic  manner.  We 
could  sometimes,  on  looking  through  the  window,  catch 
his  eye,  and  obtain  from  him  one  of  those  lovely  smiles 
which  only  a  parent's  eye  can  fully  perceive  ;  which 
only  a  parent's  heart  can  feel  ;  and  then  see  him  recov- 
er his  state  and  resume  his  speech.  On  his  entrance, 
he  was  generally  saluted  with,  "  Well,  what  to-day, 
William?"  "Achilles,  JIannibal,  Caesar,  Sir  Arthur 
Wellesley,  addressing  my  troops  ;"  or,  "I  have  been 
making  a  speech  in  parliament,  on  the  state  of  the  na- 
tion, on  the  state  of  the  war  ;•'  or,  "  I  have  been  speak- 
ing on  the  trial  of ."'  &,c.  With  his  young  com- 
panions, he  would  convert  the  parlour  into  a  Court  of 
Justice,  or  a  House  of  Commons.  He  was  ever  the 
leading  orator  ;  and,  generally,  by  the  acuteness  of  his 
reasonings,  or  the  nature  of  his  subjects,  left  his  antag- 
onist barristers,  and  his  parliamentary  compeers,  far 
behind  him,  astonished  at  his  addresses.  I  have  heard 
clever  boys,  many  years  older  than  he,  cry  out,  "  Wil- 
liam, William,  what  is  it  you  mean  ? — can't  understand 
you." 

Up  to  his  twelfth  year,  however,  his  views,  in  con- 
currence with  the  wishes  of  his  parents,  were,  I  believe, 
directed  to  the  ministry  of  the  gospel  :  but  about  this 
time,  his  inclination  took  a  new,  decisive,  and  unaltera- 
ble bent.  Having,  at  the  age  of  twelve  or  thirteen, 
accompanied  his  cousin  to  Dorchester  Assizes,  he  was 


50 

present  at  a  trial  in  which  Sergeant,— now  Judge  Best 
was  for  the  defendant.     A  very  material  witness,  on  the 
part  of  the  plaintiff,  was  a  boy  of  about  William's  age. 
In  cross-questioning  this  boy,  Mr.  B.  was  severe,— not, 
perhaps,  unusually  or  unnecessarily  so  ;  but  still,  in  my 
son's  apprehension,  severe.      His  pity   was  awakened 
for  the  lad;  and  he  became,  at  that  moment,  a  decided 
opponent  of  the  learned  sergeant.     He  watched  every 
word  of  that  gentleman's  speech  to  the  jury,  and  resolv- 
ed  how  he   would   have   answered   it,  had  he  been  the 
opposite  advocate.    Ignorant  of  law,  he  probably  deem- 
ed some  parts  of  the  speech  weak,  which  were  really 
impregnable.     He  thought,  however,  that  many  of  the 
weak  points  of  the  argument  were  left  untouched  by 
the  gentleman  on  the  other  side  ;  and  said  to  himself,  as 
he  afterwards  told  me,  ''  If  I  were  there,  I  would  soon 
unravel    and   expose   the   sophistry  of  Sergeant  B."— 
From  that  time,  he  determined  for  the  bar  ;  and  noth- 
ino-    ever  for  a  moment,  shook  his  determination.     He 
knew,  however,  our  wishes,  and,  therefore,  did  not  press 
the   subject  upon    our  attention.      When  he  was  about 
fourteen,  I  wrote  to  him  from  London,  on  the  subject  of 
his   future   prospects,   hinting  the  necessity  of  giving  a 
more  specific  direction  to  his  studies  ;  but  he  dexterous- 
ly evaded  the  point,  by  saying,  in  his  answer,    "  I  hope 
that  whatever  may  be  my  future  engagements,  1   shall 
keep  constantly  in  view  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  good 
of  my   fellow-creatures."      In  the  last  letter  I  ever  re- 
ceived  from   him,  and  from  which  1  have  already   pre- 
sented an  extract,  he  enters  fully  into  this  subject  ;  and 
says,  "  We  all  feel  that  it  is  high  time  something  should 


51 

be  deiinitely  settled  with  regard  to  my  future  prospects. 
**  *  I  have  always  professed  a  determination  to  con- 
form myself  to  your  wishes  wherever  I  can  conscien- 
tiously do  so  :  but  what  practical  evidence  of  sincerity 
have  I  afforded  ?  *  *  *  My  propensity  once  made  known, 
your  goodness  and  excessive  delicacy  forbore  to  remind 
me  of  my  duty  ;  and  as  1  forgot  it,  that  inclination  was 
immediately  complied  with.  As  soon,  however,  as  the 
truth  of  the  case  came  fairly  before  me,  I  determined 
to  write  this  letter;  and  as  the  determination  has  been 
formed  for  some  months  past,  you  are  not  to  consider  it 
as  a  temporary  or  thoughtless  effusion  of  confidence 
and  affection  :  it  is,  in  fact,  no  more  than  a  recognition 
of  indefeasible  paternal  rights,  of  which  the  exercise  is 
highly  conducive  to  the  welflire  of  the  son.***  It  is, 
however,  ijer?/,  very  possible,  to  embrace  in  detail,  what 
one  would  sincerely  reject  on  the  whole  ;  and  1  there- 
fore feel  it  an  unspeakable  privilege  to  apply  to  one, 
who,  like  yourself,  has  the  same  interests,  without  the 
same  passions  and  prejudices  which  I  have.  *  *  *  Im- 
mediately next  in  importance,*  are  the  chances  of  pro- 
fessional success^  which  must  be  viewed  in  connexion 
with  the  character  of  him  who  is  to  strive  after  that  suc- 
cess. Here  I  have  only  one  caution  to  give  you  ;  and 
I  am  deeply  serious  when  I  give  it.  Always  suspect 
that  3'ou  over-rate  me  ;  and  on  principle  abstract  much 
from  your  estimate  of  my  character,  when  that  estimate 
forms  part  of  a  practical  calculation.  If,  therefore,  you 
find  that  any  situation  requires  a  given  share   of  talents 

*  To  usefulness,  of  which  he  had  just  spoken. 


52 

and  acquirements,  hike  your  conception  of  my  abilities, 
strike  off  one-third  or  thereabouts  ;    and   then,    if  you 
find  the.remainder  equal   to  the   amount  required,  you 
may  decide  with  tolerable   correctness.      But  this  cor- 
rection^ as  a  mathematician  would  call  it,  you  must  intro- 
duce :  legal  education  is  expensive,   and   success  very 
uncertain.     If,  on  the  whole,  you  disapprove  of  the  at- 
tempt, say  medicine,  or  what  you  will.     Only  you  will, 
of  course,  form  a  comparative^  as  well  as  an  absolute  esti- 
mate of  these  chances  :    because,  while  one  profession 
may  be  poor  enough,  all  may  be  equally  so.  *  *  *  After 
this,  I  wish  you  to  take  your  own  predilections  into  the 
account — as  far,  1  mean,  as  these  predilections  are  pure- 
ly arbitrary  :  otherwise,   they  are   to  be  considered  as 
reasons  which  will  have  their  due  weight  in  your  mind  ; 
and  with   you  the  ultimate  decision  rests.   ***   Lastly, 
my  own  inclinations.    I  know  you  will  not  like  to  oppose 
these,   under   the   idea   that   my  happiness  will  thus  be 
compromised.     1  beg,  however,  that  no  feeling  of  this 
kind  may  have  any  influence.     Happiness  and  the  grat- 
ilication  of  inclination  are  distinct,  may  be   opposed    to 
each  other.      I   have  no  wish  for  the  expensive  title  of 
barrister,   with    a    pocket    purseless  and  impoverished 
friends  ;  still  less,  with  the  heavy  condemnation  at  last 
of  having  misspent  my  opjjortunities  of  good.      Again, 
therefore,  I  say,  let  the  claims  of  duty,  of  prudence  and 
of  filial  affi'ction  be  fully  satisfied  first  of  all.    After  this, 
if  any   question  remain,    refer  that  and  only  that  to  my 
predilections. — In   addition,   I  have  only  to  say,  inquire 
immediately,  and  decide  before  I  leave  College.     Once 
more,  do  not  rc/er  the  matter  to  me.     This  letter  is  not 


53 

matter  of  form  and  ceremony,  or  even  of  duty  merely. 
When  1  say,  Decide  for  me,  I  mean,  Decide  for  me.  All 
I  want  is  the  result  of  your  inquiries.  With  entire  con- 
fidence in  the  wisdom  of  your  decision,  I  am  perfectly 
iinsolicitous  about  the  premises  on  which  your  conclu- 
sions may  be  founded.  You  may  or  may  not  state  those 
when  you  announce  that  conclusion.  Till  then,  how- 
ever, I  should  be  sadly  mortitied,  if  letters,  which  ought 
to  be  the  effusion  of  the  heart  and  the  representatives 
of  social  chit-chat,  were  to  be  encumbered  even  with 
family  business.  Let  me,  then,  have  nothing  more,  ex- 
cept your  kind  compliance  with  my  request,  that  you 
■will  decide,  and  then  your  ultimate  decision.  If  you 
deem  it  prudent  for  ?ne  to  take  the  lower  walks  of  either 
profession^  you  need  anticipate  no  objection  from  rny  pride.^'' 
My  mind  had  been  long  made  up  ;  and,  on  everv  con- 
sideration, after  he  had  declined  the  ministry  of  the  gos- 
pel, 1  thought  it  proper  for  him  to  enter  into  the  law. 
And  1  certainly  had  hoped  to  have  seen  him  an  orna- 
ment to  the  bar.  If  the  fondness  and  the  folly  of  a  pa- 
rent had  indulged  a  faint  expectation  that,  as  far  as  his 
religious  principles  would  have  permitted,  he  might 
have  risen  even  higher  than  the  bar,  parents  will,  at 
least,  pity,  if  they  do  not  forgive  me. 


54 


HIS  COMMENCEMENT  AND  PROGRESS  IN  LATIN,  FRENCH, 
GREEK  AND  ITALIAN, 

At  the  age  of  seven,  he  began  to  learn  Latin.  My 
friend,  Mr  Bullar,  of  Southampton,  for  whom  my  dear 
boy,  who  could  almost  divine  the  characters  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures, felt,  to  the  end  of  life,  unbounded  admira- 
lion—afforded  me  the  benefit  of  his  advice,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  part  of  William's  education.  I  was 
a  novice  at  teaching  ;  but,  aided  by  my  friend,  1  enter- 
ed upon  it  with  confidence  and  pleasure.  My  first  in- 
tention was,  merely  to  have  trained  him  myself  till  ten 
or  eleven,  and  then  send  him  to  Southampton.  From 
this  1  was  afterwards  deterred  by  the  express  desire  of 
Mr  Bullar,  who,  modestly,  and,  1  believe  sincerely, 
however  incorrectl}^,  thought,  and  assured  me,  that  tee 
could  do  much  more  for  him  at  home,  than,  under  his 
circumstances,  he  could  accomplish  for  him  at  school. 
His  advance  through  the  grammar  was  sure,  not  rapid. 
In  the  declensions  of  his  i>ouns,  or  the  conjugations  of 
his  verbs,  1  would  sometimes  bet  him  ten  kisses  that  I 
could  go  through  them  lasler  and  more  accurately  than 
he.  And  this  was  a  stimulus  which  he  was  eminently 
formed  to  feel  :  no  severity  could  have  urged  him  to  so 
much  diligence  :  his  heart  could  always  be  touched  by 
an  appeal  to  his  affections.  After  he  had  fairly  master- 
ed "  The  Accidence,  As  in  praesenti.  Propria  quae  ma- 
ribus,    Syntax,    and     Prosody,"     I   divided    the    whole 


55 

into  twenty-four  parts,  which  he  repeated  daily;- — thus 
accomplishing  his  task  every  month.  This,  1  iind,  he 
continued  to  do  till  the  end  of  his  life.  He  parsed,  of 
course,  as  he  read,  and  thus  applied  his  rules:  but  the 
practice  of  monthly  repetition  kept  them  ever  ready 
for  application.  Before  he  went  to  College,  at  the  age 
of  a  little  more  than  fifteeen,  he  had  read  through  the 
elementary  books  of  the  Valpys,  with  Eutropius,  Nepos, 
Florus,  Justin,  (twice)  Caesar,  (twice)  Sallust,  (twice) 
Liv}^,  Tacitus,  several  orations  and  some  philosophical 
pieces  of  Cicero.  He  read  frequently  the  Eclogues, 
Georgics  and  ^neid  of  Virgil  ;  with  Lucan's  Pharsalia  ; 
Excerpta  of  Ovid,  which  contain  most  of  the  unexcep- 
tionable parts  ;  and  such  parts  of  Terence,  Martial, 
Persius  and  Juvenal,  as  prudence  permitted.  All  the 
finest  parts  of  those  poets — especially  their  bold  and 
tender  descriptions, — he  had  committed  to  memory. 
My  friend  had  furnished  me  with  Didot's  edition  of  Ho- 
race, printed  at  Paris,  from  which  all  the  Pagan  filthi- 
ness  of  that  beautiful  author  is  ejected  : — and  can  it  be 
worth  while,  for  the  purpose  of  maintaining  the  integ- 
rity of  his  writingrJ,  to  publish  edition  after  edition  for 
our  seminaries  of  instruction,  and  to  thrust  upon  the  at- 
tention of  the  young,  scenes  and  language  which,  how- 
ever popular  at  Pome  in  the  days  of  Augustus,  or  in 
England  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  are  tit  only  for 
a  brothel,  and  are  condemned  equally  by  the  sober  dic- 
tates of  common  morality  and  the  authoritative  mandate 
of  divine  revelation  !  This  expurgated  copy  he  gener- 
ally used ;  and,  as  I  had  tixed  with  a  pen  the  mark  of 
reprobation  on  all    the  indecent  passages  in   my  own 


56 

complete  editions,  on  which  he  might  occasionally  light, 
he  never  read  one  line  that  could  awaken  a  passion 
which  Christianity  teaches  us  to  sui)press.  He  commit- 
ted to  memory  the  whole  of  Horace's  Odes,  the  Carmen 
Scecidare,  and  Dc  Arte  Foetica  ;  all  which  he  repeated, 
at  least,  four  times  every  year. 

At  his  first  Session  in  Glasgow,  he  gained  the  chief 
Latin  prize  at  the  Black  Stone  examination  ;  and  made 
one  of  the  largest  '■^professions''''  that  any  of  his  age  had 
ever  been  known  to  make.  The  profession  for  com- 
petition consists  in  meeting  several  of  the  professors  : 
with  fellow-students  as  judges  ;  and  the  person  who 
"  competes''''  recites  to  the  professor  of  his  class  a  list  of 
authors,  of  which  he  professes  himself  the  master  ;  and 
offers  to  read,  ad  aperturam  lihri — the  examiner  open- 
ing as  many  of  the  authors,  in  what  places  he  pleases, 
or  to  which  chance  may  direct  him.  I  have  before  me 
a  list  of  thirty-nine  authors,  which  he  professed  on  that 
occasion.  All  who  pass  from  a  lower  to  a  higher  class, 
undergo  a  Black  Stone  examination,  (so  called  from  the 
students'  silting  at  the  end  of  a  long  table  on  a  black 
marble  slab  ;)  but  the  competition  for  prizes  lies  among 
those  few  who  have  the  courage  to  dare  bravely,  and  to 
meet  the  cleverest  and  boldest  of  their  companions  in 
literature. 

At  the  age  of  nine,  he  began  to  learn  French,  under 
his  beloved  mother,  who  spoke  that  language  with  flu- 
ency and  correctness.  After  his  progress  in  Latin,  he 
found  this  very  easy;  and  soon  read  through  many-of 
the  Poets,  Racine,  Moliere,  Crebillon,  Delille,  &,c. ;  to- 
gether with  Pascal,   Fenelon,  Du  Bosc,  Saurin,  &c.     It 


57 

was  originally  intended  that  after  he  had  been  four 
years  at  Glasgow,  he  should  spend  a  year  either  at  Pa- 
ris, or  at  the  University  of  Montaubon  ;  but  this  purpose, 
at  his  particular  request,  we  had  for  some  time  relin- 
quished. 

The  next  year  he  entered  upon  the  study  of  Greek. 
It  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  admire  the  Greek 
historians  and  poets;  though  he  thought  even  they  had 
been  over-rated.  That  the  expatriation  of  the  Greeks, 
by  the  capture  of  Constantinople,  and  the  consequent 
diffusion  of  Greek  literature,  contributed  most  materi- 
ally to  the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe  ;  and  that 
nothing  then  existed  which  could  bear  comparison  with 
the  chaste  atid  beautiful  writings  of  the  ancients,  he 
readily  admitted  :  but  he  thought  it  mere  pedantry  to 
offer  a  homage  to  them,  which  should  imply  a  contempt 
for  the  moderns.  He  thought,  and  others  thought  with 
him,  that  whatever  might  be  the  powers  of  the  ancients, 
they  did  not  surpass,  in  any  department,  writers  who 
have  lived  since  the  revival  of  learning;  while,  in  some 
departments,  they  fell  far  short  of  them.  During  one 
of  his  vacations,  after  he  went  to  College,  he  wrote  a 
very  elaborate  essay  on  "  The  advantages  of  classical 
literature,"  in  which  he  said  all  that  he  could  say  in  fa- 
vor of  the  ancients  ;  but  his  sentiments  on  the  compara- 
tive worth  and  beauty  of  the  classical  and  more  recent 
writers  remained  unchanged.  Of  the  Greek  philosophers 
he  used  to  say,  "It  is  classical  treason  to  declare  it ; 
and,  therefore,  I  must  take  care  before  whom  I  expose 
myself;  but  I  think  most  of  these  are  mere  drivellers." 
He  was  particularly  struck  with  this  when  we  read  to- 


58 

gether  the  Ethics  of  Aristotle.  He  thought  that,  as  a 
philosopher,  Cicero  threw  all  the  Greeks  into  the  shade. 
This  might  be  true,  without  any  disgrace  to  thetn  :  for 
he  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  all  their  lights. 

My  dear  son,  however,  moving,  as  he  did,  among  the 
fine  writings,  and  curious  but  unsatisfying  speculations 
of  the  classics,  learned  to  perceive,  more  and  more,  the 
necessity  and  advantages  of  that  divine  revelation,  which 
has  thrown  open  to  the  most  uneducated  christian,  and 
placed  among  (he  first  principles  of  his  knowledge,  the 
truths  for  which  so  many  powerful  minds  had  been  for 
ages  searching  in  vain.  "  The  world  by  wisdom  knew 
not  God."  He  saw  that  while  philosophers,  toiling  in 
the  dark,  had  only  accumulated  a  mass  of  errors,  with 
here  or  there  a  particle  of  truth,  rather  "  received  by 
tradition  from  their  fathers,"  than  elicited  by  their  own 
efforts,  God  had  "  revealed"  his  perfections,  the  nature 
of  his  government,  and  the  riches  of  his  grace,  "to 
babes."  He  excepted  from  the  mass  of  trifling  philoso- 
phers, one  distinguished  man.  His  great  favourite  of 
pagan  antiquity  was  Socrates,  who  had,  as  he  thought, 
drawn  moral  science  out  of  the  obscurity,  in  which  the 
miserable  sophistry  of  the  rest  had  involved  it.  This 
excellent  man  he  ever  designated,  "  the  St.  John  of 
heathenism  :"  and  he  wondered  how  any  scholar  could 
maintain,  that  that  almost  inspired  sage  virtually  aban- 
doned the  principle  of  the  divine  unity,  for  which  he 
dared  to  die,  by  requesting,  as  Plato,  in  his  Phtedo,  re- 
lates, that  his  attendants  would  offer  a  cock  to  tEscuIe- 
pius.  Is  it  forgotten  that  he  did  this — if,  indeed,  he 
really  did  it  at  all — only  as  he  was  just  sinking  under 


59 

the  stupifying  influence  of  poison  ?  My  son  also  greatly 
admired  the  distinguished  disciple  of  Socrates,  Xeno- 
phon,  whose  Memorabilia,  Cyropaedia,  and  Anabasis,  he 
read  through.  Besides,  portions  of  almost  all  the  differ- 
ent Greek  classics,  he  read  with  me  the  whole  New 
Testament  and  Septuagint,  before  he  went  to  College. 
When  eleven  years  old,  he  began  to  learn  Italian, 
under  his  mother,  and  read  with  her  Metastasio,  Tasso, 
and  some  other  of  the  poets — what  they  read  in  prose 
I  forget.  He  never  appeared  afterwards  to  be  at  a  loss 
in  translating  any  thing  he  met  with  in  the  course  of  his 
reading. 


60 


Jl'st  about  this  time,  he  began  to  rsrite  themes  al- 
most every  Friday  forenoon.  He  generally  chose  his 
own  subjects  ;  though  we  sometimes  chose  them  for 
him,  or  the  passing  events  of  the  day  suggested  them. 
He  always  wrote  upon  his  slate,  read  them  to  the  fami- 
ly, and,  for  a  long  time,  understood  that  they  were  rub- 
bed out  and  lost.  But  both  from  their  extraordinary 
character  as  the  productions  of  a  child,  and  in  order  to 
preserve  a  permanent  memorial  of  his  mental  progress, 
I  copied  them  off,  even  from  the  beginning.  After  hav- 
ing done  this  for  some  time,  I  made  no  secret  of  it.  As 
those  productions  afford  a  fair  specimen  of  his  habits  of 
thought  and  modes  of  expression  ;  and  do,  I  think,  con- 
tain a  proof  of  the  precocity,  vigor,  and  cultivation  of 
his  powers,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  presenting  a  few^ 
extracts — assuring  my  readers,  that,  as  I  copied  them 
with  scrupulous  exactness  from  his  slate,  I  give  them  as 
exactly  in  these  pages.  I  have  not  the  folly  to  imagine 
that  these  early  productions  of  his  pen  can  gratify  per- 
sons of  matured  understanding,  further  than  as  they  af- 
ford an  illustration  of  his  mental  progress.  The  first  of 
the  following  essa}  s  was  written,  when  he  was  about 
eleven  years  and  three  months  old.  I  have  inserted  in 
succession,  pieces  written  at  the  intervals  of  three  or 
six  months,  in  the  first  series  ;  and  every  one  who  un- 
derstands composition,  will  instantly  perceive  his  rapid 
improvement  in  the  choice  of  his  words,  the  structure, 
harmony,  and   force   of  his  style.     I   shall  pursue   the 


61 

same  course  in  the  two  subsequent  periods  ;  and  leave 
the  intelligent  reader  to  form  his  own  judgment  of  that 
child  who  began  the  last,  "  on  the  connexion  of  ideas," 
before  he  attained  his  fourteenth  year.  I  may  remark, 
in  passing,  that,  as  far  as  I  recollect,  he  never  obtained 
assistance  in  writing  any  of  these  pieces,  by  reference  to 
hooks.  He  had  conversed,  read,  and  thought  on  all 
these  subjects  ;  but  when  he  wrote,  he  drew  immedi- 
ately from  the  stores  of  his  own  mind. 


5* 


62 


THEMES 


Written  between  the  Age  of  Eleven  and  Twelve. 


ADVANTAGES    OF    THE    STUDY    OF    HISTORY, 
{Dated  April,  1814.) 

The  advantages  of  the  study  of  history  are  various. 
Even  if  there  were  none,  it  seems  natural  to  wish  to 
know  the  degree  of  civilization  and  fi^eedotn  which  our 
fellow  creatures  have  enjoyed,  and  the  forms  of  govern- 
ment under  which  they  have  lived,  in  various  ages  and 
countries.  But  besides  the  gratification  which  it  affords 
us,  several  advantages  arise  from  a  good  acquaintance 
with  it.  By  presenting  to  our  view  the  actions  of  great 
and  good  men,  it  stimulates  us  to  exertion,  that  we  may 
imitate  them.  It  is  said  that  Julius  Caesar,  when  he 
read  the  actions  of  Alexander,  wept  that  he^  though  he 
was  as  old  as  that  conqueror,  had  performed  no  action 
which  equalled  any  of  his. 

Besides  affording  examples  which  may  stimulate  us 
to  noble  and  useful  actions,  it  warns  us  to  avoid  those 
which  are  base  or  hurtful.  What  king  of  England 
would  attempt  to  levy  taxes  without  a  parliament,  or  to 
encroach  on  the  civil  or  religious  privileges  of  English- 
men, after  the  fate  of  Charles  I.  and  James  H. !  And 
will  not  the  fall  of  Napoleon  Buonaparte  shew  all  fu- 


63 

ture  kings  what  a  vain  attempt  it  is  to  subject  all  Eu- 
rope to  one  man  !  What  people  will  imitate  the  French 
Revolution,  after  knowing  the  murders  which  were  its 
immediate  consequences,  and  the  despotism  to  which  it 
ultimately  led  !  Besides  all  this,  we  see  for  what  wise 
ends  the  darkest  providences  were  sent ;  and  that  the 
greatest  judgments  have  ultimately  tended  to  the  good 
of  mankind. 


THE    DISADVANTAGES    OF    SOLITUDE. 

{July,  1814.) 

Solitude  has  been  supposed  the  fittest  situation  for 
contemplation  and  devotion,  and  for  the  cultivation  of 
all  the  most  excellent  qualities  of  the  soul.  It  has  been 
loved  and  sought  by  some  men,  from  a  natural  morose- 
ness  of  dispositien  —by  others,  because  they  have  been 
disappointed  in  the  pursuit  of  honors  or  riches,  and  so 
disgusted  with  society — and  also  by  some  good  and  wise 
men,  who  would  have  been,  perhaps  the  honor  of  their 
age,  and  the  lights  of  the  world,  if  erroneous  ideas  of 
devotion  had  not  led  them  astray.  But  how  great  are 
the  pleasures  and  advantages  of  society  !  In  solitude, 
there  are  none  who  may  partake  one's  joys  or  griefs — 
a  man  must  suffer  his  afflictions,  and  enjoy  all  his  hap- 
piness (if  it  is  possible  to  possess  any  in  such  a  situation) 
alone.  There  is  none  to  console  the  man  when  in  dis- 
tress, or  to  counsel  him  wlien  he  knows  not  how  to  act. 
But  in  society,  our  sorrow  is,  at  least,  alleviated  by  the 


64 

condolence  of  those  who  love  us ;  and  pleasures  are 
doubled,  by  knowing  that  all  our  joys  make  a  friend  joy- 
ful. There  are  in  society  vvise  and  good  men  to  advise 
and  admonish  us.  All  these  advantages  are  lost  in  soli- 
tude. 

O  solitude  I  where  are  the  charms 

That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ! 

I  think  the  love  of  society  natural  to  the  human  race. 
There  may  have  been  some  exceptions  :  but  they  are, 
in  general,  considered  as  monsters,  rather  than  men. 


65 
THEMES 

Written  between  Twelve  and  Thirteen. 

ON  DECISION.     {February,  1815.) 

Many  of  the  best  properties  of  the  mind,  when  pos- 
sessed in  an  excessive  degree,  are  hurtful ;  and  jet  al- 
most all   of  them  are  apt    to  run  into   extremes.     Zeal 
may  beget  fanaticism  ;  strong  reasoning  powers,  an  ar- 
gumentative turn  of  mind,  may  create  scepticism  j  emu- 
lation may  become  ambition  ;  and,  in   like    manner,  de- 
cision  may  degenerate   into   obstinacy.     Nevertheless, 
we  ought  not   to  confound  these  various  qualities.     We 
need  not  dislike  zeal,  because  we  hate  fanaticism  ;  we 
need   not   admire   scepticism,  because  we    are   fond   of 
acute  reasoning  ;   it  would   not   be   right   to  discourage 
emulation,  because   we   see   the   fatal  consequences   of 
ambition.     And  it  is  an  equal  mistake  to  confound  deci- 
sion with    obstinacy.     Though  they   are,  (if  I   may  so 
epeak)  of  the  same  species,  they  are  far  from  being  the 
same   thing.     Decision    is    determination  and   firmness, 
governed  by  reason,  directed  by  wisdom,  and  associated 
with  prudence  : — while   obstinacy  is  unrestrained,  gov- 
erned by  passion,  and  directed  by  folly  ;   opposing  only 
that  which   is  good  ;  determined    only  in  that   which  is 
evil;    vaccillating,    when  it   ought  to  decide  j  deciding, 
when  it  ought  to  consider. 


66 

Efjually  opposite  to  both  of  these  is  Indecision.  It 
shows  a  vast  weakness  and  imbecility  of  the  mind  when 
a  man  is  always  halting  between  two  opinions  ;  when 
the  slightest  arguments  can  determine  him  ;  and  argu- 
ments still  weaker  unfix  his  determination ;  when  he 
never  knows  what  course  to  take,  what  sentiments  to 
adopt.  Nothing  can  be  done  without  decision,  in  peace 
or  war,  in  the  affairs  of  a  nation,  or  in  those  of  an  indi- 
vidual. Decision  has  formed  the  characters  of  a  Marl- 
borough, a  Nelson,  a  Wellington,  and  an  Elizabeth  ; — 
while  Indecision  and  obstinacy  united,  distinguish  those 
execrable  princes  (the  disgrace  of  Scotland,  and  the 
curse  of  England)  the  Stuarts.  It  is  decision  by  which 
Britain  has  overthrown  the  tyrant.  It  is  decision  by 
which  Europe  has  thrown  ofT  the  yoke  of  slavery.  And 
it  is  decision  by  which  Britons  have  obtained  their  pres- 
ent rights  and  liberties. 


POLYTHEISM.     {March,  1815.) 

Wickedness  produces  negligence  ;  and  negligence 
fosters  ignorance.  Mankind,  who  had  received  the 
knowledge  of  the  only  living  and  true  God  from  their 
father,  Noah,  lost  it  by  degrees  from  among  them  ;  and 
gave  themselves  "  to  believe  a  lie."  But  reason  ;  tra- 
dition ;  the  testimony  of  the  earth,  with  it«  flowers,  its 
fruits  and  its  verdure  ;  the  testimony  of  the  heavens, 
with  their  wonders — all — all — concurred  to  prove  a  God. 
Thus  far  went  reason,  but  no  farther  :  for,  unilluminat- 
ed  by  the  lamp  of  revelation,  and  unenlightened  by  the 


% 


67 

torch  of  truth,  she  wandered  in  endless  mazes  of  error 
and  folly.  '  The  Sun  enlightens  us,  and  He  shall  be  our 
God.  The  Earth  nourishes  us,  and  we  will  adore  Her. 
But  who  formed  the  earth  ?  We  know  not.  Who  cre- 
ated the  sun  ?  We  are  ignorant.  Who  "  spake  and  it 
was  done,  commanded  and  it  stood  fast  ?"  We  know  of 
no  such  Being. 

But  even  this  was  too  refined  for  them.  They  con- 
sidered their  gods  only  as  more  exalted  men.  They 
no  longer  worshipped  the  sun  ;  but  the  god  of  the  sun 
— a  god  cursed  with  all  the  passions  of  a  very  bad  man. 
The  number  of  gods  was  multiplied  ;  and  almost  every 
tree,  every  fountain  had  its  divinity.  Not  content  with 
this,  they  proceeded  a  step  farther ;  and  deified  men 
were  placed  among  the  gods,  and  stood  next  to  the 
throne  of  Jupiter.  These  marvellous  and  incongruous 
tales,  these  numerous  and  jarring  divinities,  were  adorn- 
ed bj'  the  pens  of  an  Ovid,  a  Homer  and  a  Virgil  :  and 
their  ridiculous  and  impure  rites  were  sanctioned  by  the 
examples  of  a  iSTuma,  a  Cato,  and  a  Pompey. 

As  for  the  philosophers — what  they  disbelieved  we 
know — what  Ihey  believed,  we  can  hardly  tell.  Al- 
though they  contemned  the  rabble  of  divinities  worship- 
ped by  the  vulgar,  they  had  too  much  timidity  or  too 
much  policy  to  publish  their  opuiions  : — for,  if  they  had 
destroj'cd,  could  they  have  re-editied  ?  li^  they  had 
pulled  down  the  fabric  of  superstition,  could  they  have 
built  a  more  noble  structure  on  its  ruins  ?  Had  they 
"cast  their  idols  to  the  moles  and  to  (he  bats,"  would 
they  have  instituted  a  religion  more  agreeable  to  truth  ? 
What  could  they  have  done  ?     Would  they  have  reform- 


68 

ed  polytheism  ?  Alas  !  the  efforts  of  the  best  of  idola- 
ters manifest  the  impracticability  of  this.  Would  they 
have  philosophized  the  world  ?  It  is  impossible  :  or, 
had  it  been  possible,  they  would  have  reasoned  thus : — 
''  If  the  world  is  philosophized,  I  am  no  longer  a  won- 
der, no  longer  a  sage,  no  longer  a  demigod."  Would 
they  have  established  a  belief  in  pantheism  ?  If  every 
thing  is  God,  nothing  can  be  God:  for  He  is  the  ruler 
of  the  universe.  But  if  the  earth  is  a  part  of  the  uni- 
versal Godhead,  it  has  no  superior  ;  and  (unless  you  sup- 
pose it  to  possess  an  intelligent  spirit)  it  is,  according  to 
this  system,  governed  by  chance.  This  would  indeed 
have  been  to  take  away  all  the  restraints  which  the 
hope  and  fear  of  future  rewards  or  punishments  might 
have  inspired. 

But,  amidst  this  universal  darkness,  a  taper  had  long 
burnt  in  the  sanctuary,  and  had  illuminated  the  narrow 
land  of  Judea — and  there  "  the  sun  of  righteousness 
arose,  with  healing  in  his  beams;" — and  his  peaceful 
soldiers,  animated  by  the  example  of  their  divine  mas- 
ter, and  following  the  footsteps  of  their  general ;  car- 
ried his  standard  and  his  victorious  arms,  where  the  Ro- 
man legions  had  never  penetrated,  and  the  Roman  ea- 
gles were  unknown.  They  displayed  the  bright  light 
of  the  gospel,  in  the  most  distant  regions;  and  idolatry 
and  ignorance  fled  before  them.  And  although  the 
wicked  persecuted  the  church  of  Jesus,  they  could  not 
destroy  her.  She  sits  on  a  mountain,  and  while  the 
lightnings  play  and  the  thunder  roars  below  her,  she 
may  smile  at  their  rage,  knowing  that  she  has  an  Al- 
mighty Friend  ;  and  confident  that  in  "  fulness  of  time," 
his  glory,  whom  she  adores,  "  shall  cover  the  earth." 


69 


WHAT    RELIGION    IS    MOST    CALCULATED    TO     PROMOTE 
THE    HAPPINESS    OP    INDIVIDUALS?      {May^   1815.) 

Tartarus  and  Elysium,  the  paradise  of  Mahomet,  or 
the  Indian  heaven,  may  scare  or  delight  some  minds 
equally  weak  and  credulous;  may  afford  to  the  philoso- 
pher a  subject  of  investigation  ;  to  the  wit,  a  subject  of 
derision  ;  and  to  most  men,  a  subject  of  indifference. 
Their  state  is  pitiable  ;  for  the  most  credulous,  when 
about  to  launch  into  the  immeasurable  ocean,  and  to 
plunge  into  the  unfathomable  abyss  of  eternity,  must 
feel  a  great  deal  of  terror;  and  fear  the  anger  of  those 
gods,  whose  commands  they  have  broken  through,  ia 
following  their  example.  The  philosopher,  void  of  all 
religious  opinions,  unable  to  determine  the  being,  much 
less  the  attributes,  of  God,  may  be  proud  of  the  little 
knowledge  he  has  acquired,  and  may,  perhaps,  have  pla- 
ced his  error  on  the  throne  he  had  prepared  for  truth. 
He  may  feast  his  imagination  on  the  admiration  of  pos- 
terity ;  he  may  fancy  himself  crowned  with  the  praises 
of  future  ages  ;  but  when  old  age  or  death  comes  upon 
him,  he  is  no  longer  able  to  investigate,  no  longer  able 
to  prove.  Does  he  look  forward  ?  All  is  darkness. 
Does  he  look  backward  ?  All  is  error.  Does  he  look 
around  ?  There  is  no  light  to  guide  him.  The  wit, 
dazzled  with  his  own  brilliance,  shines  like  a  meteor, 
astonishing  all  around  him,  by  his  superior  lustre.  It  is 
but  a  meteor,  and  it  sets  in  darkness.  When  he  has  time 
for  reflection  ;  when  eternity  is  near;  he  sees  a  dread- 
ful gulf  opened  under  his  feet:  but  the  abyss  is  covered 
6 


70 

with  darkness  ;  he  dares  not  fix  his  eyes  on  it;  and  he 
cannot  avert  them  from  it :  he  dares  not  plunge  ;  but 
expects  soon  to  be  precipitated  into  it.  Something  with- 
in assures  him  that  there  is  a  future  state. 

But  I  am  now  come  to  the  fourth  class.  The  indif- 
ferent can  no  longer  be  indifferent ;  the  careless  can  no 
longer  be  careless  ;  when  death  and  eternity  come  to 
support  the  terrors  of  conscience.  When  the  tumult  of 
the  world  no  longer  drowns  the  small  still  voice  of  con- 
science, the  darkness  by  which  they  are  enveloped  can- 
not hide  the  whole  of  futui'ity  from  them  ;  and  the 
clouds  which  hang  over  it  rather  increase  than  diminish 
its  horror.  There  is  no  way  of  escape,  there  is  no  light, 
there  is  no  one  to  guide,  no  one  to  direct. 

1  have  gone  far  enough  with  this  melancholy  pic- 
ture :  and,  surely,  that  is  the  best  religion  which  deliv- 
ers men  from  so  much  darkness  and  misery.  What  re- 
ligion effects  this  1  We  pronounce  immediately,  "  The 
Christian."  It  has,  I  think,  been  proved,  that  virtue 
produces  happiness.  That  the  christian  religion  is  the 
purest  of  all  religions,  has,  1  think,  been  sufficiently 
shewn.  The  enemies  of  the  gospel,  even  if  opposing  a 
cheat,  are  opposing  a  cheat  in  which  the  happiness  of 
the  human  race  consists.  Let  them,  then,  tell  us  of  the 
happiness  of  the  pagans  !  They  cannot  struggle  against 
facts!  Oh!  thou  bloody  city  of  Juggernaut,  ye  pilgrims, 
fainting  under  its  scorching  sun,  bear  your  united  testi- 
mony to  the  happiness  of  pagans  ! 


71 


SUPERSTITION.     {December,  1815.) 

We  take  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  examining  the  di- 
lapidated walls,  the  falling'  arches,  and  the  solitary  col- 
umns of  a  magnificent  ruin.  But  if  a  man  had  possessed 
that  building  when  in  a  perfect  state  :  if  he  associated 
with  each  ruined  arch  the  idea  of  some  long  lost  pleas- 
ure;  if  every  stone  reminded  him  of  some  friend  that 
was  gone  forever  ;  if  desolation  pervaded  the  place  that 
had  once  witnessed  domestic  happiness  ;  if  brambles 
grew  on  that  hearth  where  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
sit,  and  if  ivy  crept  round  the  room  of  which  he  was 
once  peculiarly  fond ; — his  feelings  would  be  those  of 
unmixed  melancholy.  Such  is  the  human  mind  !  A  few 
solitary  columns,  a  few  broken  arches,  fallen  pillars, 
scattered  chapiters,  and  defaced  sculpture,  are  the  sole 
indications  of  its  origmal  beauty.  Man  once  possessed 
this  habitation :  but  it  is  now  in  ruins ;  and  I  shall  en- 
deavor at  present  to  examine  one  part  of  these  ruins. 
I  shall  first  consider  Superstition  itself;  then  its  causes  ; 
then  its  effects;  then  its  advantages. 

I  shall  consider  Superstition  itself,  as  of  two  kinds. 
It  is  first,  a  disposition  to  recur  to  preternatural  agency 
and  mystery  :  secondly,  a  disposition  to  give  the  glory 
of  the  Creator  to  the  creature.  That  this  is  a  line  of 
distinction  between  these  two  is  obvious  ;  but  it  is  more 
difficult  to  determine  its  situation.  To  effect  this,  I 
must  consider,  first,  the  inclination  some  men  feel  to  re- 
cur to  preternatural  agency  and  mystery.  This  is  but 
an  intellectual  error — an  error  produced  by  education 


; 


72 

or  by  habit ;  and  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  greatest 
purity  of  soul,  or  the  greatest  mental  vigor, — I  say,  the 
greatest  mental  vigor  |  for  men  of  the  strongest  minds 
have  been  very  superstitious — a  Brutus  and  even  a  John- 
son being  examples. 

I  may  not  yet  have  defined,  with  sufficient  clearness, 
what  I  mean  to  include  under  this  kind  of  supersti- 
tion. It  is  not  superstitious  to  recur  to  supernatural  and 
divine  agency  ;  we  know  that  even  a  hair  of  our  head 
falls  not  to  the  ground  without  divine  permission  : — but 
it  is  superstitious  to  believe  that  common  or  even  extra- 
ordinary occurrences  are  the  effect — not  of  those  second 
causes  which  God  has  appointed,  and  which  he  mana- 
ges, but — of  a  certain  mj'sterious  power  which  we  can- 
not explain.  It  is  not  superstitious  to  believe  that  invis- 
ible and  even  wicked  agents  have  a  great  influence  over 
us  ;  but  it  is  superstitious  to  believe  that  they  put  on  a 
bodily  form,  or  that  any  particular  appearance  is  an  in- 
dication of  their  presence.  It  is  not  superstitious  to  be- 
lieve that  God  can  permit  and  has  permitted  pure  spirits 
to  take  a  bodily  lorm  ;  but  it  is  superstitious  to  believe 
that  this  is  done  on  common  occasions,  or  that  such  ex- 
traordinary and  miraculous  means  are  resorted  to,  to 
accomplish  an  unworthy  end.  It  is  not  superstitious  to 
receive  religion  with  all  its  marvels  ;  but  it  is  supersti- 
tious to  receive  even  religion  without  examination.  This 
implicit  faith  in  the  common  religion,  because  it  is  the 
common  religion,  has  been  the  foundation  of  the  tem- 
ples of  Venus  and  Bacchus ;  it  has  supported  the  pa- 
pal throne,  as  well  as  the  ridiculous  doctrines  of  the  Ko- 
ran. 


i 


73 

But  I  turn  from  the  merely  intellectual,  to  the  mor- 
al ruins  of  human  nature.  The  temple  is  ruined,  it  is 
true  ;  but,  what  is  worse,  it  is  defiled.  Where,  former- 
ly, Reason  sat  enthroned,  Error  now  reigns.  Where 
Charity,  Wisdom  and  Peace  once  reigned,  there  Hatred, 
Strife  and  Superstition  now  wield  their  sceptres.  The 
veil  of  the  holy  of  holies  is  rent,  the  sanctuary  is  thrown 
open  to  every  intruder;  and  Satan  has  entered  and  de- 
filed it.  The  obscurity  of  tradition  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  was  increased  by  every  repetition  ;  and 
fallen  man  has  always  been  more  fond  of  accommodat- 
ing his  creed  to  his  desires,  than  of  accommodating  his 
desires  to  his  creed.  The  bloody  Saxons  chose  Odin  as 
their  principal  divinity.  Venus  was  worshipped  by  the 
luxurious  Cyprians.  The  powerful  Jupiter  was  adored 
in  the  Capitol;  and  to  the  god  of  poetry  were  dedica- 
ted the  groves  and  vallies  of  Greece.  In  fact,  every 
stream  and  every  hill  had  its  ovvn  peculiar  god. 

I  have  now  to  consider  the  different  causes  of  these 
two  different  kinds  of  superstition.  The  causes  of  the 
first  kind  of  superstition  are — The  love  of  a  violent  slim^ 
ulus — The  desire  after  immortality — The  love  of  prying  in- 
to mysterious  secrets — and — Ignorance.  There  is  a  singu- 
lar analogy  between  the  tastes  of  ihe  body  and  those  of 
the  mind.  And,  among  other  similarities,  they  are  both 
fond  of  violent  excitements.  Marvellous  occurrences  are 
to  the  mind,  what  strong  drink  is  to  the  body.  Like  it^ 
they  inflame,  and  leave  a  kind  of  void  behind  :  they  dis- 
gust the  mind  with  all  vvholesome  food,  with  all  the  com- 
mon occurrences  of  life  ;  but  great  part  of  their  charm 
is  taken  off.  if  we  doubt  the  truth  of  the  relation.  This 
6* 


74      • 

13  one  cause  of  superstition.  But  ag'ain — The  desire  af- 
ter immortality.  There  is  something  revolting  in  the 
idea  of  being  laid  in  the  dust,  and  so  annihilated.  There 
is  something  sad  in  the  idea  that  the  wit,  the  orator, 
the  warrior,  and  the  husbandman  must  all  lie  down  to- 
gether in  a  common  grave.  And,  thus  taught  by  tradi- 
tion, and  by  their  own  desires,  men  have  aspired  to- 
wards a  future  state  of  being.  But  they  were  unable  to 
form  any  just  conception  of  it  ;  and  the  frightful  ques- 
tions pi'Gsented  themselves  on  every  side,  "  Where  am 
I  going  ? — To  what  society  shall  I  be  introduced  ?" 
They  have  appealed  to  reason;  but  reason  has  been  si- 
lent ;  and  imagination,  with  all  its  phantoms  and  vaga- 
ries, has  been  substituted  for  it.  Again,  another  cause 
of  superstition  is  J'he  love  of  prying  into  mysterious  se- 
crets. There  was  a  time  when  the  judgment  was  gov- 
erned by  God,  and  when  judgment  governed  the  will, 
and  the  execution  of  the  will  was  not  impeded  by  ad- 
verse circumstances.  But  now  this  fair  picture  is  re- 
versed. The  judgment  is  corrupt,  and  is  influenced 
and  governed  by  a  corrupt  will  :  or,  where  the  mind  is 
Tuuier  a  better  influence,  obstacles  to  the  fulfilment  of 
its  desire  are  continually  presenting  themselves;  and 
its  diflerent  properties,  like  parts  of  a  deranged  ma- 
chine, impede  what  they  were  intended  to  facilitate  : 
that  which  was  once  all  harmony/and  order,  is  now  con- 
fused and  disproportionate.  The  desires  are  as  unlimit- 
ed as  they  ever  were  ;  but  they  flow  in  diflerent  chan- 
nels, or  rather  from  a  corrupt  i'ountain.  Instead  of  as- 
piring to  virtue  and  immortality,  they  entwine  around, 
they  embrace,  the  world.     Instead  of  desiring  anything 


75 

that  is  honorable  or  of  good  report,  they  cling-  to  every 
thing  that  is  dishonorable.  But,  among  other  strong 
desires,  curiosity  is  one  of  the  strongest ;  and,  in  some 
cases,  one  of  the  most  laudable  ;  in  others,  one  of  the 
most  hurtful.  You  iind  that  from  the  little  child,  to  the 
wise  philosopher,  all  are  dissatisfied  with  the  present 
state  of  knowledge,  all  participate  in  the  pleasure  of 
learning  something.  "  Still  onward  !  onward  !"  It  is, 
then,  no  wonder,  if  men  have  sought  to  dive  into  the 
secrets  of  futurity.  Hence  they  resort  to  cunning  men, 
who  pretend  to  tell  them  what  is  to  come  to  pass  ;  but 
who  rarely  satisfy  their  superstitious  hearers  by  a  di- 
rect answer  to  their  inquiries.  They  have  also  resort- 
ed to  spectres  and  phantoms. 

"  Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 

Ha  !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  !" 

The}'^  have  thought  that,  by  intercourse  with  the 
dead,  they  might  gain  some  information  on  so  important 
a  subject,  and  thus  they  hear,  with  the  utmost  attention, 
and  believe,  with  the  profoundest  reverence,  the  most 
incredible  stories.  Again,  Ignorance  is  another  cause. 
And,  under  this  head,  1  might  have  comprised  all  the 
causes  of  superstition :  but  as  brevity  was  not  my  ob- 
ject and  I  wished  to  be  explicit  and  intelligible,  I  have 
divided  the  subject  into  several  particulars.  For  were 
not  our  taste  vitiated,  and  our  knowledge  impaired,  we 
should  not  seek  a  '*  stimulant''''  by  any  unlawful  means. 
The  ''  desire  of  knoiscledge''''  produces  only  a  good  effect 
on  those  to  whom  life  and  immortality  are  revealed. 
And  the  very  idea  of  a  "  secret"  implies  ignorance. 


76 

The  human  tnind  is  ignorant,  yet  wise  in  its  own  con- 
ceit ;  and  the  Uttle  light  that  it  gain?,  unassisted  by  rev- 
elation, only  serves  to  show  the  thick  darkness  that 
surrounds  it.  Philosophy  has,  indeed,  attempted  to  re- 
move the  difficulty,  which,  like  the  stone  of  Sysiphus, 
recoils,  and  crushes  the  hand  that  attempts  to  move 
it :  but  its  endeavors  have  been  useless.  Neverthe- 
less, the  ignorance  to  which  I  refer,  is  rather  a  gen- 
eral ignorance  than  an  ignorance  on  particular  subjects  ; 
and  we  do  find  that  where  general  knowledge  is  preva- 
lent, superstition  is  banished  ;  and  that  men  are  more 
or  less  superstitious,  according  to  the  portion  of  infor- 
mation that  they  have  acquired. 

1  should  now  have  considered  the  causes  of  Idolatry  ; 
but  this  is,  alas  !  to  be  referred  rather  to  the  depravity 
of  the  heart,  than  to  that  of  the  understanding.  I  will, 
therefore,  proceed  to  the  effects  of  superstition.  Some 
men,  always  ready  to  oppose  any  thing  which  can  tend 
to  civilize  or  bless  their  species,  since  they  find  that  the 
universal  cry  of  England  has  destroyed  the  Slave  Trade, 
have  entreated  us,  that,  although  we  are  determined  to 
deny  the  Africans  the  unspeakable  pleasure  of  being 
transported  and  worked  to  deatli  in  a  foreign  land,  we 
would,  at  least,  leave  the  heathen  their  innocent  super- 
stition. Innocent !  Let  War  show  her  thousands  of 
dead,  and  Superstition  shall  show  her  ten  thousands  ! 
Witness!  ye  miserable  victims  crushed  under  her  chari- 
ot wheels  !  Witness  !  Witness  !  ye  infants,  whom  the 
cruelty  of  your  parents  has  exposed  to  the  heat  of  a 
vertical  sun,  to  hunger  and  thirst,  and  wretchedness  ! — 
and,  with  united  voice,  bear  witness  to  the  innocence  of 


77 

superstition  !  It  debases  the  human  mind  ;  it  restrains 
its  powers,  and  tyrannizes  over  them  ;  it  hardens  the 
human  heart,  and  steels  it  against  the  most  natural  and 
almost  instinctive  feelings  : 

"  At  thy  command,  he  plants  the  dagger  deep  ; 

•'  At  thy  command,  exults,  though  nature  bids  him  weep." 

Superstition  though  it  wears  the  garb  of  religion,  is  a 
very  ditferent  thing,  both  in  its  principles  and  in  its  ef- 
fects. Religion  emanates  from  the  bosom  of  God,  and 
produces  charity  and  good  works  ;  while  Superstition, 
arising  from  the  fancy  of  men,  or  from  the  machinations 
of  Satan,  produces  strite,  envy,  and  evil  works.  Reli- 
gion commends  itself  by  meekness  and  love  :  Supersti- 
tion is  distinguished  by  hatred  and  desire  of  revenge. 
Religion  uses  only  lawful  and  laudable  means  to  estab- 
lish her  dominion  ;  but  the  arms  of  Superstition  are  not 
only  carnal,  but  diabolical.  Such  are  the  general  effects 
of  Superstition. 

I  have  now  to  consider  more  particularly  its  advanta- 
ges :  and  these  are  rather  negative  than  positive.  It 
prevents  Atheism  :  and,  where  united  with  Christianity, 
it  in  some  measure  guards  it  from  the  attacks  of  scepti- 
cism. If  the  heathen,  deprived  as  they  were  of  every 
source  of  instruction,  and  of  every  spiritual  idea  of  God, 
had  not  been  helped  in  their  conceptions  of  the  Su- 
preme Being,  restrained  from  sin,  and  assisted  in  their 
devotions,  by  Superstition,  they  must  have  become 
Atheists  both  in  theory  and  practice.  It  may  sometimes 
also  strengthen  a  man's  belief  in  Christianity.  Many 
men  have  been  educated  in  such  a  way,  that  they  know 


78 

but  little  of  religion,  and  yet  are  well  acquainted  with 
the  Superstitions  with  which  the  fancy  of  men  has  dis- 
figured it,  and  have  been  taught  from  their  childhood 
to  revere  them,  and  to  connect  them  with  the  idea  of 
religion.  These,  then,  have  guarded  religion,  till  the 
man  has  been  able  to  examine  it;  and  then,  having  seen 
the  beauty  of  undefiled  religion,  he  takes  away  the  in- 
cumbrances with  which  it  was  surrounded,  and  casts 
off  the  chains  with  which  he  himself  was  bound. 

But  still,  the  evils  of  Superstition  vastly  preponder- 
ate. And  we  are  happy  that  we  can  look  forward  to  a 
period  when  Truth  shall  come  in  like  a  flood  ;  when 
the  river,  which  springs  from  the  throne  of  God,  shall 
grow  wider  and  wider,  shall  overflow  its  banks,  and  re- 
fresh, and  fertilize,  and  beautify  that  "  dry  and  thirsty 
land  where  no  water  is  ;"  when  the  Sun,  which  is  now 
rising,  shall  shine  forth  in  full  splendour,  and  shall  dis- 
pel the  mists  of  darkness  and  of  error  J  and  when  Truth 
alone  shall  reign. 


79 


He  continued  his  weekly  compositions  from  thirteen  to 
fourteen  ;  and  I  should,  with  pleasure,  continue  the 
extracts,  did  I  not  fear  that  I  should  weary  my  readers 
with  too  great  an  abundance  of  these  juvenile,  or  rather 
childish,  productions.  The  last  prose  piece  which  he 
wrote  was  on  "the  oonnexion  of  ideas.-'  It  is  far  too 
long  for  insertion  ;  and  though  it  contains  many  beauti- 
ful thoughts  clothed  in  charming  language,  I  can  dare 
to  offer  only  the  commencement  and  the  conclusion  of 
the  essay.  It  was  begun  when  he  was  thirteen  years 
and  nine  months  old. 


THE  CONNEXION  OF  IDEAS. 

{September,  1816.) 

All  sciences  may  be  divided  into  two  classes  : — tboffe 
which  are  purely  speculative,  which  afford  considerable 
amusement ;  but  in  which  the  lover  of  his  species  and 
the  lover  of  improvem^int  can  find  little  or  nothing  that 
may  serve  to  strengthen  his  own  faculties,  to  sweeten 
his  own  disposition,  or  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of 
mankind  at  large  : — and  those  which,  while  they  are 
continually  opening  new  sources  of  i)leasure,  strengthen 
the  faculties,  enlarge  the  mind  ;  and,  contributing  to  the 
happiness  of  their  possessor,  enable  him  to  contribute 
largely  to  the  happiness  of  the  world.  The  subject 
which  I  am  to  consider  unites  all  the  advantages  I  have 


80 

enumerated.     To  the  man  who  is  fond  of  reasoning  and 
speculation,  it  will  aflbrd  matter  of  contemplation  which 
will  delig-ht,   but  never  cloy  ;    satisfy,  but  never  satiate 
him  ;   while  the  philanthropist  may  make  it  the  founda- 
tion of  new  plans,  by  which  he  may  bless,  and  raise,  and 
dignify  mankind.     Whoever  studies  this  subject  will  find 
that,   as  he  passes  on,  fresh  prospects  are  ever  opening 
before  him  ;    that  as  soon  as  he  has  gained  one  object, 
another,  brighter  and  more  lovely,  presents  itself  ;  and 
that  regions  more  beauteous  than  those   through  which 
he   has    already  passed,  invite   him  to  continue  his  en- 
deavours,    Man,   like  every  other  species,  has  his  dis- 
tinguishing peculiarities  : — a    peculiar  conformation   of 
body  ;  peculiar  habits  ;  and  a  mind  peculiarly  vigorous, 
when  compared  with  the   lower  creation.      Minds    too 
have    all    some   things  in  common,  some  distinguishing 
traits  which  none  can  mistake  ;    and   which    that  poor 
despised  creature,  whose   intellect  scarcely  raises  him 
above  a  brute,  possesses  in  common  with  the  mind  of  a 
Virgil — perhaps,  in  common  with  the  highest  archangel 
in  heaven.     "  The  connexion  of  ideas,"  then,  is  one  of 
those  things  which  1  consider  as  necessary  to  the  very 
existence  of  mind  as  it  exists  on  earth.    It  is  indispensa- 
bly necessary,  because  the  judgment,  the  fancy,  and  all 
the  powers  of  the  mind  are  its  offspring;    and  because 
nothing  can  be   done  without  it,  by  the  philosopher  in 
his  study,   or  by   the   mechanic  in  his  daily  occupation. 
But  before  I  attempt  to  prove  what  1  have  asserted,  it 
will  be  necessary  to  explain  the  Ideas  which  I  attach  to 
the  terms  which  I  have  used.* 

*  Here  intervened  many  pages,  written  at  various  times,  dur- 
ing about  three  or  four  months  ;  but,  for  the  reason  already  as- 


81 

fft  •!•  "t*  *!•  »!•  •!■  ^*  *p  "T" 

I  liave  now  to  consider  the  imagination.  The  mind 
of  every  man  seems  to  feelits  own  grandeur;  but  exter- 
nal circumstances  keep  it  down,  shorten  its  flisfhts,  and 
repress  its  exertions  ;  but  the  moment  3'ou  can  detach 
it  from  ordinarj'  objects,  it  begins  to  soar  and  expatiate 
in  a  world  of  its  own,  which  resembles  the  world  that 
surrounds  us  just  as  the  celestial  colors  of  the  rainbow 
resemble  the  clouds  they  adorn.  Hence  the  frequent 
sublimity  of  dreams,  and  the  energetic  eloquence  of 
madness.  It  is  true,  that  in  such  cases  our  ideas  are  of- 
ten fixed  on  common  affairs;  and  then  indeed  they  hare 
all  the  whim  of  insanity  without  any  of  the  grandeur 
which  it  sometimes  possesses.  Yet  when  once  the  real 
world  ceases  to  haunt  us,  imagination  creates  an  ideal 
universe,  and  luxuriates  in  her  proper  sphere.  The 
associates  she  forms  are  also  entirely  different  from  real 
men.  She  paints  them  all,  glowing  with  the  colors  of 
heaven,  or  tinged  with  the  darkness  of  hell.  The  scene 
is  ever  shifting  as  the  actors  are  strange  ;  sometimes 
decked  with  the  flowers  of  paradise,  and  soon  wrapped 
in  the  deepest  gloom.  She  often  endures  causeless,  un- 
accountable miseries,  and  is  sometimes  elated  with  the 
most  exquisite  joys;  sometimes  tilled  with  hope,  and 
often  sunk  in  despair  !  Yet  "  xftE  connexion  of  ideas" 
is,  in  some  sort,  necessary  to  the  exercise  of  this  facul- 
ty. We  have  no  example  of  a  mind  utterly  devoid  of 
connexion,  so  that  we  can  scarcely  determine  the  effects 
of  its  destruction. 


signed,  they  are  omiWccl.       What  follows  was  writtcrj  on  the  lust 
7 


t^\;o  rnoraings. 


82 

********* 

And  now  had  I  determined  to  eulogise  the  human 
mind  ;  had  it  been  my  design  to  throw  the  deformity  of 
the  heart  into  the  shade  ;  and  to  lose  sight  of  the  de- 
pravity of  our  morals,  amid  the  dazzle  of  intellectual 
brilliance  ;  what  could  1  have  said  more  highly  commen- 
datory of  our  mental  perfection,  than  that  the  principle 
of  ORDER — the  moving  principle  of  the  universe,  the 
grand  principle  which  puts  the  power  of  omnipotence 
into  action — is  the  main-spring  of  the  human  soul,  the 
foundation  of  its  greatness,  nay,  the  very  stamina  of  its 
existence  ? 

Nevertheless,  true — incontrovertibly  true — it  is,  that 
the  love  of  order  has  been  injured,  though  not  destroy- 
ed,— that  some  grand  intellectual  as  well  as  moral  shock 
has  been  sustained  by  humanity.  We  see  its  ravages  la 
the  greatest  mind  ;  and,  although  they  resemble  the 
traces  of  an  earthquake,  which  has  rent  an  Alp  asunder, 
they  are  but  ruins  still.  I  must  leave  it  to  divines  to 
determine  by  what  means  that  shock  was  given  ;  and 
whether  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart  alone  has 
debased  the  intellect,  or  whether  the  same  shock  which 
effaced  the  moral,  defaced  the  intellectual  image  of  the 
Deity.  But  the  fact  is  certain  ;  and  if  we  refuse  to 
admit  it,  we  find  that  all  our  speculations  on  this  subject 
are  restrained  by  insurmountable  difficulties,  and  all  our 
most  plausible  reasoning  but  a  tissue  of  sophisms  :  we 
are  acting  against  experience  ;  we  are  in  the  labyrinth 
of  Minos,  without  a  clue  to  extricate  us  ;  we  find  our- 
selves at  sea,  without  a  compass  to  direct  our  way  ; 


83 

and  surrounded  with  rocks   and  quicksands,  without  a 
beacon  to  shew  us  a  place  of  safety. 

But  while  it  is  necessary  for  the  philosopher  to  cal- 
culate on  this  mental  blindness  ;  it  is  far  more  essential 
to  the  philanthropist  and  politician  to  calculate  on  de- 
pravity, both  intellectual  and  moral.  The  benevolent 
must  expect  to  find  that  his  labors  are  undervalued  by 
the  folly,  and  chilled  by  the  ingratitude,  of  mankind — 
while  the  legislator  must  always  prepare  himself  for 
resistance  against  his  most  beautiful  theory  ;  and  remem- 
ber, while,  like  the  patient  artist,  he  is  endeavouring  to 
realize  forms  of  ideal  beauty,  that  he  too  is  working  on 
bad  materials  ;  and  that  he  has  an  additional  difficulty 
to  encounter  in  the  propensity  his  most  perfect  work 
will  always  have  to  relapse  into  its  original  deformity. 


84 


mS  FIRST  POETICAI.  EFFORTS  AT  THE  AGE  OF 
FOURTEEN. 

Perceivia'g  in  several  of  these  pieces,  a  considerable 
play  of  imagination,  and  soraething  approaching  to  the 
elevation  of  poetrj  ;  I  often  said  to  his  mother,  '  There 
is  here  and  there  something  like  a  poet  in  our  dear  boy.' 
Yet  I  more  frequently  said,  '  William,  you  will  make  a 
very  good  metaphysician,  perhaps,  a  good  mathemati- 
cian ;  but  never  a  poet.  How  can  you  become  one  ? 
for  neither  father  nor  mother  have  a  particle  of  imagi- 
nation to  give  you.'  This,  I  conceive,  determined  him 
to  try.  He  did  not  write,  I  believe,  "  because  the  num- 
bers came  ;""  but  because  he  wished  to  see  what  he 
could  do.  This  was  no  unusual  thing  with  him.  Feel- 
ing, I  suppose,  the  strength  of  his  powers,  he  aluays 
attempted  what  was  represented  to  be,  or  what  was  in 
reality,  the  most  difficult  of  its  kind. 

In  April,  1817,  while  I  was  in  London,  his  mother,  to 
my  great  surprise,  sent  me  a  few  verses  written  by  him. 
He  happened  to  see  the  plays  of  Crebillon  at  a  shop  in 
the  town,  and  begged  his  mother  to  purchase  them  for 
him.  On  the  following  Friday,  intent  as  usual,  upon  his 
new  volumes,  he  said,  "■  Let  me  write  a  translation  of 
the  Idomeneus."  '  By  all  means.'  "But  shall  I  give 
you  an  elegant  translation  ?"  She,  smiling,  said,  '  As  ele- 
gant as  you  please.'  In  two  or  three  hours,  he  brought 
her  ninety  lines,  from  which  she  sent  me  the  following 
extract  : 


85 


Back  to  <he  shores  of  Crete  I  haste,  I  flj, 
Nor  think  of  danger,  though,  'twas  uow  so  nigh, 
I  will  not  tell  thee  ail  the  tale  obsce.ne, 
The  direful  vengeance  of  the  Paphian  queen. 
Her  hatred,  strengther/d  by  the  loss  of  Troy, 
Still  strives  unwearied  till  it  sliali  destroy. 
Nor  does  her  arm  alone  the  vengeance  sway, 
But  all  the  gods  are  seen,  in  proud  array, 
Conabined  to  blast  my  peace,  my  hope,  my  all, 
Until  beneath  almi^lily  power  I  fall. 
Old  Crete  appeared,  and  all  ray  wishes  flew 
Towards  Cidonia,  which  was  now  in  view  ; 
When  sudden  o'er  (he  heavens  a  dark'ning  cloud 
Obscured  their  brightness  with  its  sable  shroud  : 
The  rattling  hailstorm  rush'd  along  the  sea, 
A  flaming  ocean  in  the  sky  we  see  ; 
The  gaping  waves  a  thousand  dangers  show, 
Dread  as  the  gates  of  everlasting  wo  : 
The  nortli  wind  groans  not,  but  it  roars,  it  flies, 
And  rends  the  sea,  and  sliakes  the  burning  skies  ; 
Above,  around,  below,  'tis  all  the  same, 
One  universal  sheet  of  billowy  flame  I 

For  several  successive  weeks,  he  continued  and  com- 
pleted that  translation  ;  and  never  wrote,  till  he  went 
to  College,  another  prose  essay.  Some  time  before 
this,  I  had  picked  up  in  his  study  a  scrap  of  paper  on 
which  some  rhymes  were  rather  illegibly  written.  I 
asked  him  what  it  was,  without  dreaming  that  it  was  a 
production  of  his  :  he  looked  at  it,  took  it  out  of  my 
hand,  said,  it  was  not  worth  reading,  and  put  it  into  the 
fire.  When  I  returned  from  London,  I  found  acciden- 
tally lying  upon  his  desk  a  similar  piece  :  and,  after  de- 
cyphering  his  almost  hieroglyphical  writing,   made  out 

7* 


86 

a  spirited  address  to  a  noble  poet,  whose  very  name,' — 
connected  with  all  that  is  transcendent  in  talent,  and 
base  in  morals, — produces  a  strange  and  painful  mixture 
of  admiration,  pity,  horror,  and  indignation.     Oh  ! 

"  What  is  thy  poetic  fame  I 
"  What  is  thy  melodious  lyre  I" 

Passing  over  this  address,  I  will  here  offer  a  few  oth- 
er specimens  of  poetry,  written  when  he  was  between 
fourteen  and  fifteen  : — 

ON    THE    SETTING    SUN,    {July^  1817.) 
1. 

Oh  !  have  ye  ever  seen  the  orb  of  light. 
When  rolling  clouds  obscure  his  evening  ray — 
No  longer  dazzling  your  astonish'd  sight, 
But  softly  sinking  in  the  western  wave, 
Which  proudly  swells  to  meet  the  Lord  of  Day, 
And  seeks  the  flaming  chariot  wheels  to  lave  ? 

2. 
Proudly  he  sets,  and  gilds  the  ocean's  breast, 
Possess'd  of  beauty's  mildest,  softest  charms  : 
The  rising  ocean  greets  the  royal  guest : — 
Just  as  the  charger  knows  his  rider  bold 
Laughs  at  the  battle  and  the  din  of  arms  ; 
Proud  of  the  purple  and  the  splendid  gold. 

3. 

That  globe  of  flame  is  not  so  dazzling  bright, 
As  when  he  blaz'd  amid  the  azure  sky, 


87 

Dispensing-  universal  heat  and  light  ; 
While  every  part  of  nature  seemM  to  smile, 
And  ev'ry  flowVet  rais'd  its  head  on  high, 
As  if 'twould  bless  the  king  of  light  the  while. 

4. 
What  tho'  less  glorious  its  evening  gleam, 
Yet  will  he  not  a  double  splendour  pour 
When  soft  Aurora  shall  disclose  his  beam, 
Opening  the  gates  of  day  with  roseate  hand, 
Refulgent  with  immortal  brightness  soar, 
And  roll  a  flood  of  brilliance  o'er  the  land  ? 

5. 

Soon  shall  he  shine,  illuming  happier  skies  ; 
No  cloud  shall  darken  then  his  golden  ray  : 
From  spicy  groves  a  thousand  odours  rise, 
The  flowVet  blushing  at  his  warm  embrace. 
The  rivers  glittering,  while  the  zephyrs  pla3^ 
And  Jubilee  is  kept  in  ev'ry  place  ! 


IMITATION    OF    HORACE, ODE  4,  BOOK  3. 

{July,  1817.) 
"  Descende  cmlo,  et  die  age  tibia,'''*  k», 

1. 

Descend  from  heav'n  and  tune  thy  golden  lyre, 
And  nobly  teach  thy  suppliant  bard  to  sing, 
Sweetly  to  chaunt  the  grand  immortal  strain, 
Or  wake  the  harp's  mellifluous  tones  again  ; 


88 


Inflame  the  poefs  soul  with  heavenly  fire, 
Till  softly  warbles  every  trembling  string-, 
And  the  bold  chords  with  thund'ring  music  ring. 

2. 

Heard  ye  ! — or  was  it  Fancy's  pleasing  dream  ? — 
Hark  !  for  they  sound  the  loud  celestial  lyres  ! 
Look  !  for  I  see  Elysian  fields  appear  ! 
With  raptures  bright,  th'  ethereal  people  hear  ! 
More  brilliant  now  Creation's  beauteous  beam, 
While  heav'nly  music  heav'nly  joy  inspires, 
Which,  flaming  high,  to  heav'n  itself  aspires. 

3. 

And  I  too  wander  'mid  the  fields  of  light — 
So  did  an  omen  prophesy  of  yore — 
When  but  a  child,  o'ercome  with  sleep  and  play. 
Wearied,  on  V'ulture's  mountain  lap  1  lay  ; 
The  lovely  birds  of  Cyprian  Venus  bright, 
With  greenest,  freshest  foliage  strew'd  me  o'er, 
And  all  around  ambrosial  sweetness  pour. 

4 

And  all  who  dwell  on  Acherontia's  crest, 
The  Bantine  hills  or  rich  Ferentum's  vale, — 
When  thus  they  saw  me,  wonder'd  much  to  find 
No  pois'nous  serpent  round  my  body  twin'd. — 
All  undisturb'd  by  savage  beasts  my  rest, 
Fann'd  with  the  breathings  of  a  gentle  gale, 
Blest  with  protection  that  can  never  fail. 


89 


5. 


Th'  immortal  laurel  and  the  myrtle  wreath 
Show'd  me  that  I  should  iind  your  ready  aid, — 
And  your's  I  am,  ye  muses,  when  I  lave 
My  burning  limbs  beneath  the  cooling  wave — 
When  cold  Praeneste's  purest  air  I  breathe. 
Or  when  I  walk  'mid  Tibur's  grateful  shade, 
Or  plunge  amid  the  Sabine  mountain  glade. 

6. 

It  was  your  shield  protected  once  my  head, 
Amid  the  thund'ring  crash  of  battle-roar — 
And  still  it  is  your  ever-watchful  eye 
That  guards  me  from  the  dangers  always  nigh— 
Now  your  impenetrable  mantle  spread, 
And,  with  a  robe  of  radiance  cover'd  o'er. 
Beyond  the  reach  of  human  thought  I'll  soar. 

7. 

With  you  I  wander,  fearless,  ev'ry  where  : — 
What,  tlio'  the  bounding  sea  around  me  foam  ? 
Tranquil  along  the  Bosphorus  I  sail, 
Tho'  lash'd  with  all  the  fury  of  the  gale  : 
Safely  I  draw  the  desert's  burning  air, — 
Unhurt  among  the  bloody  Spaniards  roam, 
Or  find,  amid  the  western  isles,  a  home. 


90 


8. 

Secure  I'll  pass  the  Scythian's  rushing  flood, 
Nor  dread  the  fierce  Barbarian's  certain  dart  ; 
While  you,  ye  Muses,  sheltered  from  the  sun. 
Sing,  in  Pierian  cave,  the  honors  won 
By  great  Augustus,  amid  toil  and  blood. 
While  the  disbanded  veterans  all  depart, 
Each  with  a  satisfied,  a  grateful  heart : — 

9. 

Rejoice  to  meet  the  ancient  soldier's  ease, 
Rejoice  to  see  the  polish  which  you  gave 
To  mighty  Caesar's  manly  virtuous  soul; 
How,  at  his  beck,  the  wheels  of  empire  roll. 
How  the  old  warrior  smiles  to  see  the  trees 
Wave  round  the  cot,  with  which  the  leader  brave 
Would  bless  the  pause  'twixt  labor  and  the  grave. 

10. 

What  is  brute  force,  without  an  active  mind  ! 
Such  was  the  giant  Titans'  horrid  might. 
Almighty  power  enraged  against  them  cast 
His  sheeted,  lurid  lightning's  withering  blast. 
Where  could  the  wretches,  then,  their  courage  find  ? — 
How  did  they  tremble  at  th'  unequal  fight. 
And  fear  omnipotency's  piercing  sight ! 

11. 

What  though  heaven  groan  beneath  the  weight  of 

arms  ! — 
Think  you  that  Jupiter,  enthron'd  in  light, 


91 

Cares  for  the  tumult  ?  *  No  !  but  with  a  nod, 
Shakes  heaven,  earth,  hell,  and  shows  himself  a  god  ; 
Laughs  at  the  rattle  of  the  vain  alarms, 
Looks  down  and  smiles  from  his  refulgent  height, 
And  shines  with  undiminished  splendor  bright, 

12. 

And  what  though  mountain  upon  mountain  rise, 
And  seek  to  reach  the  golden  lamps  on  high  ! 
Yet  how  can  great  Typhoeus'  giant  hand 
Forphyrion's  strength  or  Rhoecus'  force  withstand 
The  mighty  soldiery  of  all  the  skies  ; 
Or  how  against  the  sounding  Mgls  fly. 
And  all  the  vengeance  of  the  gods  defy  ! 

13. 

The  host  of  heaven  exult  in  strength  divine  : 
Here  stands  the  monarch  of  devouring  flame  ; 
Here  heavenly  Juno,  arm'd  with  heavenly  might ; 
And  there  the  youthful  beauteous  God  of  light ; 
Castalia's  dew-gems  round  his  ringlets  shine. 
Celestial  glory  sparkles  through  his  frame, 
While  Lycian  groves  re-echo  to  his  name. 

*  I  really  conceive  that  there  is  something  so  mean  in  the  ori- 
ginal idea — 

"  Magnum  ilia  terrorem  intulerat  Jovi 
Fidens  juventus," — 

that  I  have  dared  to  desert  my  model  ;    as    I    could  not  reconcile 
myself  to  a  cowardlt/  omnipotence. 


{ 


92 


14. 

The  Titans  fell  ; — for  how  could  brutal  force 
Destroy  the  fountain  spring  of  all  that's  wise  ; 
Dry  up  the  sea  of  knowledge,  love  and  joj^, 
Of  boundless  power  to  save  or  to  destroy  : 
Arrest  that  mighty  ocean  in  its  course, 
Disarm  the  dreaded  Thunderer  of  the  skies, 
Or  hope  above  infinitude  to  rise  ! 

15. 

For  so  the  hundred-handed  Gyas  fell  ; 
Lustful  Orion, — chaste  Diana's  foe — 
Swift  from  the  virgin's  piercing  arrow  fled  : 
But  th'  unerring  archer  laid  him  dead  : — 
The  lightning's  storm  pursued  the  rest  to  hell  ; 
And  Earth,  which  chains  him  down  to  fire  below, 
Groans,  while  she  sees  her  children's  overthrow  ! 

16. 

In  vain  (hey  strive,  in  vain  they  tug  their  chains, 

Altho'  the  eating  fire  forever  glows. 

By  vultures  torn,  the  heart  of  Tityus  lies. 

All  undiminished  Etna's  summits  rise, 

A  hundred  triple  bands  to  fiery  pain 

Confine  Pirithoijs,  with  eternal  blows. 

And  scorpion-lashes  leave  him  no  repose. 


93 


The  translator  adds  : — 

Not  iu  Pieria's  grot,  O  heavenly  muse, 

Nor  round  the  fabled  throne  of  sov'reign  Jove, 

Nor  near  old  Athens'  classic  groves  art  thou  : — 

But  thou  art  all  around  me  :  1  hear  thy  voice 

Amid  the  bowlings  of  the  tempests'  cry, 

Or  in  the  zephyrs  softly  whispering — 

Thee  in  the  waving  trees,  the  glittering  streams — 

Thee  in  the  billowy  ocean's  lo'idest  roar — 

Thee  in  the  gentle  harp's  mellifluous  sound — 

Thee  in  the  thunder  roaring  o'er  the  sky — 

And  thee  I  find  amid  the  mountain  tops, 

Or  polish'd  plains,  or  heathery  hillocks  wild  ! 

Thee  I  invok'd,  when  first  I  undertook 

The  high  emprise  of  following  angel  wing, 

Or  one  that  soar'd  liigh  as  angel  in 

Th'  expanse  of  thought.  And  now  my  work  is  done. 

Shall  I  be  thankless,  i    upon  my  head 

Be  plac'd  the  laurel  crown  of  victory  ? 

Or  tho'  no  laurel  deck  my  humble  lay. 

Shall  I  be  thankless  ;  if  I  have  transfus'd 

Its  bright  effulg-ence  from  one  noble  line 

Of  thy  most  frivor'd  child,  or  breath'd  his  soul 

Into  the  grandeur  of  my  native  tongue  ? 


During  the  same  summer,  (while  he  was  between 
fourteen  and  fifteen)  he  began  "  The  Wizard,"  a  most 
wild,  imaginative  prodiiction.     Its  plot,  as  far  as  it  goes, 

is  rather  inartificial ;  and  I  am  unable  to  say  what  he  in- 
8 


94 

tended  as  the  catastrophe ;  for  he  proceeded  only 
through  a  part  of  his  plan.  The  last  portion  of  the 
fragment  was  written  about  April,  1818.  His  beloved 
mother,  who  had  contributed  so  much  towards  the  for- 
mation of  his  mind,  was  delighted  with  this  Tale,  and 
our  dear  young  poet  continued  it  chiefly  for  her  amuse- 
ment. Soon  after  he  had  completed  the  thousandth 
line,  an  event  happened  which  threw  a  deep  gloom 
over  us  all ;  any  reference  to  which  long  filled  our  eyes 
with  tears,  and  our  hearts  with  agony  ;  and,  at  this  mo- 
ment, fills  me  with  unutterable  anguish.  He  never 
touched  the  poem  again  ;  I  believe,  never  looked  at  it: 
his  muse  remained  for  a  time,  and  I  feared  would  re- 
main through  life, 

"  Lorn  as  the  hung-up  lute  that  ne'er  had  spoken 
Sweet  sounds  e'er  since  its  master  chord  was  broken." 


95 


ILLNESS  AND    DEATH    OF    HIS    MOTHER. 

Thus,  for  years,  passed  life  most  sweetly  away — our  af- 
fection and  comfort,  if  possible,  increasing  hourly.  The 
long  imbecility,  and  the  death  of  his  maternal  grand- 
mother ;  and  the  continued  bodily  infirmities  of  a  most 
beloved  aunt,  were  the  only  domestic  evils  he  was  call- 
ed, for  a  considerable  time,  to  witness.  His  grand- 
mother, who  had  been  for  more  than  fifty  years  of  her 
life  distinguished  for  her  great  good  sense,  hospitality, 
and  christian  piety,  died  in  February,  1817,  at  the  ad- 
vanced age  of  79.  His  aunt,  (who,  though  afflicted,  jet 
in  such  beloved  society,  and  blest  with  the  richest  con- 
solations of  religion,  still  enjoyed  life) — his  mother  and 
mi/se//"  felt  a  growing  delight  in  our  dear  and  common 
treasure,  who  was  all  that  the  fondest,  the  proudest,  or 
even  the  holiest  relatives  could  wish.  Amidst  the  ten 
thousand  conceivable  possibilities  or  probabilities  of  his 
future  life,  1  had,  notwithstanding  her  ill  health,  gener- 
ally associated  his  aunt,  and  always  his  mother,  in  my 
dreams  of  earthly  bliss.  But  God,  whose  "  thoughts 
are  not  as  our  thoughts,"  had  intended  far  different 
scenes  for  them  and  for  me.  "  He  hath  chosen,"  and 
let  Him  choose  "  my  inheritance  for  me."  Not  as  I 
will,  but  as  Thou  wilt." 

At  the  close  of  1817,  his  mother's  health  became  im- 
paired. Her  vivacity,  her  general  benevolence,  her 
tender  affection  for  us,  remained  unimpaired.  We  pass- 
ed the  winter  ia  some  comfort,  with  our  two  dear  inva- 


96 

lids  ;  who,  however,  were  sometimes  incapable  of  see- 
ing each  other  for  nearly  a  week  together.  But  though 
we  had  long  considered  Miss  Friend's  as  a  hopeless  case, 
we  had  no  serious  apprehensions  for  Mrs.  Durant.  Her 
ceaseless  animation  deceived  us.  And  her  mind  was 
never  more  alive  ;  her  heart  was  never  so  intent  on  do- 
ing good.  In  her  various  weaknesses,  which  rendered 
personal  exertion  in  the  cause  of  humanity  and  religion 
impossible,  she  would  often  say,  "My  only  grand  wish 
for  health  is,  that  I  might  not  be  so  useless  as  1  am  in 
the  world  :"  and  some  of  her  very  last  hours  were 
spent  in  contriving  to  promote  the  happiness  of  her  fel- 
low-creatures. While  we  were  dreaming  of  her  recov- 
ery,— scarcely  suspecting,  even  for  a  moment,  the  slight- 
est danger — our  friends,  it  seems,  who  saw  her  less  fre- 
quently than  we  did,  and  could  mark,  with  greater  pre- 
cision, her  decays  ;  whispered  to  each  other  the  fears 
which  their  tenderness  forbade  them  to  communicate  to 
us. 

On  Monday,  the  4th  of  May,  1818,  she  and  her  sis- 
ter went  as  far  as  Wilton,  on  their  way  to  Melksham 
Spa.  At  the  house  of  our  dear  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bristowe,  they  met,  for  a  week,  with  all  the  attention 
which  affection  could  devise  and  supply.  William  and 
I  followed  them,  on  the  next  Monday,  with  an  intention 
of  accompanying  them  to  their  ulterior  destination.  We 
had  hoped  that  the  waters,  air,  and  scenery  of  Melk- 
sham, would  have  restored  to  us  in  perfect  health,  our 
dearest  sufferer  :  and  that  even  her  sister  would  return 
improved.  We  left  Poole,  by  coach,  in  higher  spirits 
than  any  with  which  we  had  ever  quitted  home  before ; 


97 

for  vve  TVero  go'm^  to  those  who  had  ahvays  rendered 
that  home  what  it  had  been.  We  talked  by  the  way  of 
meeting  them  ;  his  heart  was  pecuUarly  dch'ghted  ;  and 
every  scene  through  which  we  passed  for  nineteen 
miles,  seemed  to  present  charms  undescried  before. 

Alas  !  our  joy  was  but  of  short  duration.  Soon  after 
our  coach  arrived  at  Fordingbridge,  where  it  stopped  a 
short  time,  we  saw  a  post-chaise  approaching  us  with 
almost  incredible  speed.  "Are  Mr.  Durant  and  his  son 
in  the  coach  ?"  roused  us  from  our  dreams  of  pleasure, 
and  forced  upon  us  a  melancholy  presentiment  of  the 
evil  that  awaited  us.  "  Is  she  alive  ?''  burst  instantly 
from  our  lips.  '  She  was,'  said  the  messenger,  '  whea 
I  left  Wilton.'  We  entered  the  carriage  ;  I  fell  upon 
my  dear  son's  neck  m  agony ;  he  was  thunderstruck 
and  speechless.  We  passed  rapidly  on  with  a  silence 
interrupted  only  by  our  sighs  and  occasional  bursts  of 
grief  In  three  hours  from  the  moment  that  the  mes- 
senger left  Wilton,  during  which  he  had  ridden  thirty 
miles,  we  arrived  at  the  house  of  our  friends.  "  Is  she 
yet  alive  ?"  '  She  is.'  We  were  ready  to  rush  to  her 
bed-side  ;  but  prudence  in  her  dying  state  demanded 
caution.  At  length  I  saw  her,  restless  in  body,  and  al- 
most struggling  with  the  final  attacks  of  her  malady ; 
but,  in  soul,  "  calm  as  summer  evenings  be."  She  con- 
versed as  readily  and  as  sensibly  as  ever.  As  it  would 
have  been  dangerous  to  have  greatly  excited  her,  I  sat 
by  her  bed-side,  silently  musing,  suppressing  ray  sighs, 
and  shedding  my  unobserved  tears  :  but  at  length  ven- 
tured to  ask,  whether  she  would  see  her  beloved  Wil- 
liam. She  answered,  "  I  shall,  I  hope,  be  better  pre- 
8* 


98 

pared  to  see  him  to-morrow  morning  :  at  present  it 
would,  I  fear,  too  much  agitate  me."  Alas  !  she  was 
destined  to  see  him  no  more  till  they  should  meet  in 
heaven  !  About  nine  that  evening,  she  was  suddenly 
seized  with  convulsions,  which  were,  in  a  few  minutes 
to  terminate  her  mortal  career.  I  called  up  my  dear 
boy,  and  he  had  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  witnessing 
her  last  struggle.  1  fell  upon  her  lifeless  corpse  ;  and 
losing,  for  a  moment,  all  self-control,  uttered  my  pierc- 
ing cries  ;  while  he  fell  on  his  knees  near  her  bed-side, 
— and,  pale  as  death,  with  a  countenance  equally  expres- 
sive of  wo  and  resignation, — faltered  out,  "  Oh !  Hear- 
enly  Father,  sustain  us  !"  In  a  few  minutes,  I  was  suf- 
ficientljf  collected  to  bend  upon  my  knees  with  him  and 
his  dear,  and  scarcely  less  afflicted,  aunt ;  and  beg  for 
grace  patiently  to  bear,  and  rightly  to  improve,  the  aw- 
ful chastisement. 

During  our  connexion  for  more  than  sixteen  years, 
I  had  had  many  fears  on  her  account.  A  fright  produ- 
ced by  the  dangerous  situation  of  William,  when  eigh- 
teen months  old,  broug-ht  on  an  alarming-  illness,  attend- 
ed  with  some  singular  phenomena.  This  illness,  by  im- 
pairing a  constitution  hitherto  peculiarly  good,  endan- 
gered her  life  during  every  succeeding  state  of  pregnan- 
cy ;  and  once  or  twice  her  confinement  had  placed  her, 
in  my  apprehension,  within  a  step  of  death.  At  these 
melancholy  seasons,  I  had,  as  1  thought,  realized  her 
death,  and  the  effects  which  that  event  would  produce 
on  my  mind.  But  till  the  moment  of  separation  actual- 
ly arrived,  I  had  not  the  slightest  conception  of  what  I 
should  feel — when  hope   became  utterly  extinct. — On 


99 

this  subject — succeeded  as  it  has  been  by  other  equally 
mournful  events — I  dare  not — 1  must  not — 1  ought  not 
— to  dwell. 

1  cannot  but  remember,  with  devout  gratitude  to 
God,  that  her  singularly  endowed  mind  was  inspired, 
adorned  and  blessed  with  a  large  share  of  genuine  reli- 
gion, which  taught  her  to  employ  all  the  influence  that 
her  talents  acquired  for  the  general  good.  1  write  for 
the  perusal  of  many  who  knew  her  ;  and  I  may  confi- 
dently appeal  to  them,  whether  she  was  not  one  of  the 
greatest  blessings  to  the  place  of  her  residence  that  it 
has  fallen  to  their  lot  to  know,  respect,  and  love.  Her 
memory  was  embalmed  by  the  regrets  of  thousands,  and 
by  the  tears  of  a  most  extensive  circle  of  friends  who 
either  concurred  with  her  in  her  "  labors  of  love,"  wit- 
nessed her  zeal,  or  partook  of  her  numerous  kindnesses. 
No  death,  within  the  whole  range  of  my  acquaintance 
— except  that  of  my  dear  son — has  ever  produced  a 
deeper  or  a  more  general  sensation. 

My  mind,  it  will  readily  be  believed,  was  absorbed 
in  grief  for  a  loss  which,  however  expected  by  our 
friends,  came  suddenly  upon  us ;  and  which  broke  the 
charm  that  had  given  to  my  future  plans  and  hopes  al- 
most their  entire  interest. 

"  She  was  ray  life's  unerring  light — 

That  quencli'd — what  beam  could  break  my  night  ?" 

At  this  moment,  however,  the  thoughts  of  my  sou 
and  afflicted  sister  mingled  with  my  sorrows  for  the  de- 
parture of  a  most  beloved  wife — of  a  wife  whom  I  all 
but  adored,  and  to  whom  (under  God)  I   must  ever  feel 


100 

that  I  owe  the  best  portion  of  my  imperfect  character, 
and  a  large  measure  of  the  little  respect  I  have  gamed, 
and  the  good  I  have  done  in  the  world.  Deeply  aflfect- 
ed,  however,  as  my  mind  was  with  one  great  evil,  I 
could  not,  even  for  an  hour,  be  indifferent  to  ttie  hap- 
piness of  those  who  seemed  now  cast  upon  me  alone.  I 
knew  that  the  possibility  of  a  change  in  my  future  coa- 
dition,  which  might  banish  her  or  render  my  home  less 
pleasant  to  her  than  it  otherwise  might  be^  would  pre- 
sent itself  to  both  of  them,  and  greatly  aggravate  the 
bitterness  of  their  loss.  I  formed  my  plan  at  once  ; — 
and  shall  ever  rejoice  that  1  did  it  ; — and  that  even  the 
kind  and  disinterested  requests  and  intreaties  of  my  be- 
loved sister,  who  afterwards  feared  she  might  stand  in 
the  way  of  my  happiness,  could  not  induce  me,  for  one 
moment,  to  falter  in  maintaining  my  purpose.  Within 
a  few  hours  cf  Mrs.  Durant's  death,  I  said  to  both, 
"Your  happiness  is  mine  ;  I  can  scarcely  be  wretched, 
if  you  are  comfortable  ;  I  cannot  possibly  be  happy,  if 
you  are  not  so.  We  return  to  Poole  ;  and,  remember, 
my  dear  sister,  you  are,  from  the  moment  of  our  arri- 
val there,  the  mistress  of  my  house  ;  the  adopted  moth- 
er of  this  dear  boy  ;  and  nothing  but  death  shall  sepa- 
rate us."  They  were  most  gratefully  affected  by  my 
declaration,  which,  after  ail,  was  as  essential  to  my  hap- 
piness as  to  theirs.  We,  then,  embraced  each  other 
"  over  my  dead,"  as  if  she  were  the  silent  witness  of 
my  vows  to  make  her  dearest  kindred  happy  ;  and,  even 
amidst  "  the  sickness  unto  death,"  which  one  of  our  trio 
was,  we  were  confident,  doomed  to  endure  ;  we  hoped 
yet  to  enjoy  a  few  days'  happiness  ;  and,  blessed  be 
God,  we  were  not  disappointed.     I  hoped, 


101 

That  ev'n  in  widowed  life  my  son  might  slied 
Rays  of  enjoyment  round  my  aching  head  ; 
As  violets  from  the  hank  on  which  they  rise 
Pour  showers  of  falling  sweets — * 

William,  who  had  ever  affectionately  loved  his  aunt, 
seemed,  from  this  moment,  to  devote  himself  entirely 
to  her  comfort.  And  never  did  the  most  impassioned 
lover  dis[)lay  a  more  ardent  desire  to  promote  the  hap- 
j)iness  of  his  mistress  than  he  to  secure  hers.  He  seem- 
ed to  anticipate  her  every  wish  ;  and  would,  at  any  time, 
to  the  last  evening  that  he  left  us,  have  foregone  any 
engagement  that  might,  even  by  possibility,  have  with- 
drawn him  from  the  opportunity  of  contributing  to  her 
pleasure. 

Our  griefs,  on  returning  to  our  once  loved  home, 
were  inexpressibly  great.  But  we  had  every  thing 
around  us  to  alleviate  our  sorrow.  Our  friends  vied 
with  each  other  in  expressions  of  sympathy,  and  in  proofs 
of  real  friendship.  My  own  affectionate  congregation, 
from  whom  I  have,  for  more  than  twentj'  years,  receiv- 
ed an  unbroken  series  of  kindnesses,  wept  for  me  as  for 
a  brother;  redoubled  their  assiduities;  and  sought  to 
make  my  burden  light.  My  own  house,  though  depriv- 
ed of  its  chief  ornament,  had  yet  much  to  attach  me — 
a  sister^  whose  very  infirmities  gave  her  a  stronger  hold 
on  my  affections  ;  and  a  son,  who,  on  that  occasion,  be- 
came my  chief  comforter.  Oh  !  how  do  those  charming 
and  eloquent  conversations,  with  which  he  endeavoured 
to  raise  my  fallen  spirits,  as  we  paced  arm  in  arm,  about 
our  garden,  now  recur  to  my  recollection  ;  and  at  once 
*  From  the  Wizard,  referred  to,  p.  93. 


102 

wound  my  heart,  and  soothe  its  angfuish  !  He  once  said, 
in  the  most  serious  and  impassioned  manner  (referring 
me  to  a  saying  of  Lord  Ossory)  ^'  I  would  not,  father — 
no,  I  would  not  part  with  my  dead  mother  for  any  living 
mother  in  Europe  !  Let  us  think  what  she  was  in  her- 
self, what  she  has  been  to  us  and  the  world,  and  what 
she  now  is — and  could  we  consent  to  exchange  her  for 
any  one  ?'' 

One  female  friend,  who,  with  her  husband,  lives  to 
weep  with  me  afresh  ;  and  some  of  my  brethren,  to 
whom  I  shall  never  cease  to  feel  my  obligations  for 
their  long  friendship  and  unwearied  kindness ;  came 
from  afar  to  weep  with  us,  and  by  sharing  our  sorrows, 
to  lessen  them,  on  that  occasion.  One  of  these  was  Mr. 
(now  Dr.)  Philip,  then  of  Aberdeen^  at  present,  of  Cape 
Town  in  Africa  ;  whom  I  mention  particularly,  as  his 
coming  was  of  great  importance  to  my  dear  William's 
subsequent  comfort.  It  had  ever  been  our  intention 
that  he  should  spend  four  years  at  the  University  of  Ab- 
erdeen, and  board  with  our  friend  Philip.  But,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  intended  removal,  he  strongly  recom- 
mended Glasgow.  Our  great  concern  was,  to  procure 
a  situation  in  a  family  of  respectability  and  intelligence, 
where  my  son  might  feel  himself  at  home,  and  be  hap- 
py. Mr.  P.  thought  that  Dr.  Wardlaw,  would  possibly, 
to  oblige  us  both,  take  him  under  his  roof.  He  wrote 
a  most  favourable  account  of  my  child  ;  and  Dr.  W.  con- 
sented to  receive  him.  This  I  shall  ever  esteem  as  one 
of  the  happiest  circumstances  of  my  life.  It  placed  my 
dearest  treasure,  where,  as  far  as  depended  upon  human 
wisdom  and  kindness,  all  was  safe.     It  gave  to  my  son, 


J03 

and  eventually  to  myself,  a  friend,  whom  I  hope  I  shall 
ever  have  the  privilege  of  calling  such  ;  and  from  whom 
William  received,  to  the  end  of  his  brief  life,  the  kind- 
ness of  a  father.  Both  Dr.  and  Mrs.  VVardlaw,  by  their 
conduct  towards  him,  have  laid  me  under  everlasting 
obligations. 

Our  summer  passed  away  as  comfortably  as,  under 
our  circumstances,  it  could  be  expected  to  pass.  A 
large  portion  of  it  was  taken  up  in  attention  to  our 
poor  invalid,  whose  constitution  had  received  an  incura- 
ble shock.  She  was,  however,  able  to  accompany  us 
in  September,  to  London,  whither  we  went  for  the  pur- 
pose of  taking  a  passage  to  Aberdeen,  on  a  visit  to  our 
friend  before  his  departure  to  Africa.  Our  residence, 
for  about  a  fortnight,  in  that  metropolis  of  the  north  of 
Scotland,  was  rendered  more  than  comfortable,  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Philip,  and  the  polite  and 
friendly  attentions  of  some  among  the  professors  of  both 
colleges,  and  several  of  the  established  ministers  of  the 
town.  In  that  part  of  the  United  Kingdom,  there  were 
none  of  those  painful  associations  which,  in  moving 
among  our  friends  in  England,  were  ever  presenting 
themselves;  and  impairing,  where  they  did  not  abso- 
lutely destroy,  our  pleasures.  We  could  visit  no  friend 
here^  who  did  not  know  her  whom  we  loved  and  for 
whom  we  mourned — no  friend,  whom  we  had  not  seen 
in  company  with  her.  There  all  was  new  ;  and  it  was 
the  first  place  that  fairly  restored  William  and  me  to 
any  thing  like  our  accustomed  cheerfulness. 

In  the  city  of  Aberdeen,  we  were  exceedingly  pleas- 
ed with  an  introduction  to  a  young  gentleman  of  uncom- 


104 

mon  promise  ;  of  whom  we  had  heard  much ;  but  whose 
modesty  and  learning  surpassed  our  expectation.  He 
was  the  only  child  of  Dr.  Ross,  like  myself,  a  widower, 
and  "  whose  life,"  like  my  own,  '•  was  bound  up  in  the 
life  of  his  son."  This  lovely  youth  was  about  four  years 
older  than  William.  But  their  cong-enial  dispositions 
and  pursuits  led  me  to  hope  that  an  acquaintance  begun 
under  his  father's  hospitable  roof  might  be  renewed  in 
my  own  house  ;  and  at  length  matured  into  a  friendship 
dissoluble  only  by  death.  He  had  promised  to  visit 
Poole  in  the  next  spring,  on  his  way  into  Devonshire^ 
whither  he  was  going  on  a  visit  to  a  relation.  The  ill- 
ness of  his  honoured  father  prevented  his  coming  to  the 
south,  and  the  accpjaintanceship  ceased.  This  surpris- 
ing young  man,  who  bid  fair  to  rank,  as  an  oriental  and 
general  scholar,  with  Sir  W.  Jones,  took  a  journey,  in 
1820,  to  the  continent  of  Europe,  for  the  purpose,  I  un- 
derstand, of  examining  some  manuscripts  in  foreign  pub- 
lic libraries  ;  and,  after  passing  several  months  there, 
returned  in  health  to  England  ;  but  on  his  journey  from 
Dover  to  London,  was  overturned  in  the  coach,  and  re- 
ceived an  injury  which,  after  causing  him  to  drag  out 
with  difficulty  a  precarious  existence  through  the  win- 
ter, consigned  him  to  a  grave,  which  he  entered  with 
christian  peace  and  hope,  in  the  spring  of  1821.  Both 
William  and  1  were  greatly  affected  on  hearing  of  his  . 
death  ;  felt  deeply  for  the  afflicted  father;  but  rejoiced  l 
to  hear  that  he  bore  the  dreadful  stroke  with  the  forti-  ■ 
tude  and  resignation  becoming  a  servant  of  God.  I  can  i 
now  more  tenderly  sympathise  with  Dr.  Ross  than  ever.  , 
We  both  grieve  only  for  ourselves.     Our  beloved  and    I 


105 

eminent  children  are  only  taken  from  dang'er  and  una- 
voidable sorrow,  to  a  nobler,  holier,  and  happier  state 
of  being.  It  were  impossible  that  parents  in  our  circum- 
stances should  not  have  indulged  high  expectations  of 
benefit  to  the  world,  and  happiness  to  ourselves,  from 
children  so  endowed  with  all  that  was  solid  and  brilliant 
in  talents,  and  sweet  in  disposition  ;  and  blessed  too  with 
an  influence  from  above,  disposing  them  to  consecrate 
all  to  the  honour  and  glory  of  God.  But  God  has  taught 
us  that  their  stay  on  earth  is  not  necessary  to  them- 
selves, to  us,  to  the  world,  or  to  His  cause.  '^  'Tis," 
says  the  great  John  Howe,  "  a  piece  of  divine  Royalty 
and  Magnificence,  that  when  he  hath  prepared  and  pol- 
ished such  an  utensil,  so  as  to  be  capable  of  great  ser- 
vice, He  can  lay  it  by  without  loss." 


106 


HIS    FIRST    SESSION    AT    GLASGOW. 

We  were  accompanied   to  Glasg-ow  by  an  affectionate 
relative,  Mr,  Coombs,  of  Ludgate-street,  London,  who 
chose  the  season  of  our  journej  to  execute  a  purpose 
he  had   long-  formed,  of  visiting  Scotland.     He   added, 
then,  as  on  many  other  occasions,  to  our  happiness  :  nor 
will  he,  I  am  certain,  feel  hurt  to  see  his  name  recorded 
with   gratitude  in  the  Memoirs  of  William  Friend  Du- 
RANT.     We  were  received  most  politely  by  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Wardlaw,  who   were    destined  to   become    the   kindest 
friends  of  my  beloved  son  ;  to  be  the  sources  of  a  large 
share  of  his  comfort  in  life  ;   his  affectionate  attendants 
at  the  bed  of  his  death — and  who  now  write,  "  Our  eyes 
and  our   hearts  fill,  when  we  think  and  speak  of  him." 
After  spending  a  week  together  in  that  city,  we  left  him. 
He  and  I  slept  in  the  same  room  the  night  preceding  my 
departure.     We  prayed  together,  hand   in  hand,  before 
we  retired   to  rest,  and  after  we  had  risen  early  on  the 
morning.     His   conversation  was   manly  and   christian  ; 
but  he  breathed  a  warmer  affection  towards  me,  and  ex- 
pressed a  more  unbounded  confidence  in  me  than  he  had 
ever  uttered  before.     At  six  in  the  morning  our  coach 
was  to  depart.     In  order  to  secure   a  good   place,  his 
cousin  and   I   ascended  a  few  minutes   before  the  time  ; 
and  he  accompanied  us  for   the  purpose  of  riding  out  a 
couple  of  miles.  The  carriage,  however,  became  crowd- 
ed with   passengers,  and   he  was  obliged  to  descend.     I 
shall  never  forget  the  tender  and  agonizing  look  of  that 


107 

moment.  He  stood  gazing  at  us  for  a  few  seconds  ;  but 
presently  I  had  lost  him ;  and  conjecturing  the  cause  of 
his  disappearance,  I  sighed — perhaps  wept — with  him. 
I  then  thought,  and  afterwards  found  from  himself,  that 
he  was  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  my  departure.  I 
commended  him  afresh  to  the  guardian  care  of  our  Heav- 
enly Father;  and  felt  no  slight  alleviation  of  my  sorrow 
at  parting,  from  the  thought  that  God  had  provided  tor 
him  such  a  friend  as  the  gentleman  in  whose  house  he 
was  to  reside — and  under  whose  roof  he  was,  alas  !  des- 
tined to  breathe  his  last ! 

At  College,  a  perfectly  new  world  opened  before 
him.  To  literature,  science,  and  intelligent  companions, 
he  was  no  stranger.  But  he  was,  in  effect,  an  only 
child  ;  had  mixed  with  no  children  in  his  studies ;  and 
had  never,  till  that  time,  received  five  lessons,  except 
in  arithmetic,  from  any  teachers  but  his  father  and  moth- 
er. He  knew  not  a  single  individual  in  the  University. 
So  entire  a  change  in  his  habits — formed  as  he  was,  too, 
for  affection — considerably  lowered  his  spirits  ;  and  his 
first  letters  were  tinged  with  a  gloom  that  threw,  for  a 
season,  no  slight  degree  of  shade  over  my  own  mind. 
He  found  nothing,  as  he  expressed  it,  to  which  his  heart 
could  cling.  He  could  not,  however,  be  long  a  stran- 
ger; and  when  known,  he  could  not  be  long  without 
admirers  and  friends.  The  professors  and  his  class-fel- 
lows soon  discovered  his  rare  talents,  his  various  attain- 
ments, and  his  indefatigable  industry.*     To  Mr.  Walker, 

• 
*  His  industry  inighl  have  cost  him  his  life,  during  the  first  ses- 
sion.    He  was  uccu3lome(J,  sometimes  not  loss  than  two  or  three 


108 

professor  of  Humanity,  he  was  indebted  for  the  most 
marked  and  polite  attentions  ;  and  that  gentleman  often 
expressed  the  high  opinion  he  entertained  of  his  abili- 
ties. In  his  class  my  dear  boy  gained  the  highest  liter- 
ary distinctions  which  his  standing  at  College  permitted. 
Though  he  had,  before  the  last  Session,  left  Mr.  Walk- 
er''s  class,  that  learned  professor  pronounced  upon  him, 
at  his  death,  a  eulogium,  the  most  gratifying  to  the 
heart  of  a  fond  and  disconsolate  father.  He  entered,  at 
the  same  time,  into  the  Greek  class  :  but  Professor 
Young,  one  of  the  profoundest,  most  ingenious,  and  acute 
philologists  of  his  age,  went  his  last  long  journey  before 
bim  ;  or  he  would  probably,  as  spontaneously  and  con- 
scientiously have  borne  his  testimony  to  the  excellence 
of  his  pupil's  character  and  conduct ;  though  it  is  admit- 
ted he  had  not  made  such  advances  in  Greek  as  in  the 
Latin  language. 

As  soon  as  I  returned  to  the  South,  we  commenced 
a  regular  correspondence,  which  never  varied  a  day 
from  that  time  till  the  illness  which  terminated  in  his 
death.     He  had  not  written  ten   letters   before   in   his 

uipfits  in  the  week,  to  throw  himself  upon  his  bed  in  his  co]le2;e 
gown,  in  order  that  he  mi?ht  lose  no  time  in  dressing  and  undress- 
ing^. I  foimd  this  out  accidentally  ;  but  he  promised,  at  my  ear- 
nest request,  not  to  be  guilty  of  so  great  an  imprudence  in  future. 
Aod  after  I  had  received  his  promise,  J  was  satisfied.  Could  the 
first  literary  honors  of  Europe  have  been  gained  by  a  breach  of  his 
•word,  1  was  sure  tliat  it  would  not  have  been  broken.  When  he 
had  once  pledged  himself  to  any  thing,  I  never  reminded  him, 
even  by  an  inuendo,  of  his  engagement.  /  should  have  felt  it  to 
have  been  indelicate  ;  he  would  have  felt  it  asa  reflection  on  his 
integrity  :  and  our  confidence  was  mutual. 


109 

life  ;  jet  his  correspondence  bore  all  the  marks  of  a 
disciplined  writer,  ease,  elegance,  vivacity,  and  simplic- 
ity. Most  of  them  referred  to  his  every  day  engage- 
ments, and  were  thrown  off  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment. 
He  says,  in  letters  written  at  different  times  during  the 
session,  "  I  never  feel  more  disposed  to  write  to  you, 
than  just  after  I  have  received  one  of  your  epistles, 
when  my  heart  and  my  imagination  are,  if  possible,  still 
warmer  than  usual ;  so  that  1  can  bring  myself  into  con- 
tact, as  it  were,  with  you  ;  and  tling  forth  upon  you  the 
first,  the  best,  the  gnnuine  offspring  of  my  warmest, 
strongest,  and  most  unshackled  feelings.  At  other  times, 
I  like  to  write,  but  just  now  I  cannot  help  it,  any  more 
than  I  could  help  going  to  see  you,  if  I  knew  that  you 
were  in  the  next  room.  *  *  *  My  feelings  on  the  re- 
ceipt of  every  letter  from  you,  are  peculiarly  pleasant; 
as  I  can  look  on  each  of  them  not  only  as  a  proof  of  your 
welfare,  or  a  pledge  of  your  atfection,  but  as  a  mark  by 
which  to  measure  my  approaches  to  the  centre  of  at- 
traction. Still  I  have  nought  to  blame  in  my  present 
situation.  I  have  enjoyed,  and  do  enjoy,  from  my  good 
host  and  hostess,  all  the  attention  that  kind  politeness 
can  dictate;  and  on  your  part,  I  receive  more  than  all 
that  the  warmest  attachment  can  expect  from  the  most 
enlarged  affection.  Add  to  this,  my  unremitted  health, 
and  unwearied  strength  ;  and  oh  !  what  have  I  not  to 
be  thankful  for  to  the  Author  of  every  good  and  perfect 
gift.  *  *  *  1  can  assure  you,  I  needed  no  '  Write  as 
usual,''  with  a  long  dash  to  induce  mc  to  address  you. 
Selfishness,  if  no  better  motive  operated,  would  induce 
me  to  have  recourse  to  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you. 
9* 


110 

You  know  all  the  delight  of  receiving  letters ;  but  you 
can  hardly  imagine  how  delightful  it  is  to  me — in  the 
total  want  here  of  every  thing  like  what  may  be  called, 
the  intimacy  of  the  heart — to  pour  out  my  thoughts,  my 
feelings,  my  whole  soul,  every  fortnight,  peW-me//,  with- 
out order,  ornament,  or  periphrasis,  to  you,  who,  1  be- 
lieve, so  tenderly  love  me  ;  and  who,  I  know,  are  so  ten- 
derly beloved  hy  me." 

I  shall  present  but  a  few  extracts  from  the  corres- 
pondence of  that  Winter. 

Glasgow,  November  12,  1818. 
My  very  dear  Father, 

That  I  may  not  drive  myself  into  a  corner, 
I  will  begin  with  those  things,  which  I  may  otherwise 
defer,  and  possibly  foiget.  Yet  after  having  written 
this  sentence,  1  almost  repent  of  it  ;  for  as  I  like  to 
place  every  thing  in  its  own  order,  I  tind,  on  reflection, 
that  1  ought  to  defer  all  these  things  to  that  part  of  the 
sheet  I  owe  to  my  aunt.  Your  saying  I  had  not  remem- 
bered to  meptio'n  your  letter  from  Birmingham,  startled 
•me,  as  much  as  the  fact  which  authorised  the  assertion 
could  have  astonished  you  :  nor  can  I  to  this  moment 
imagine  how  1  could  have  forgotten  to  mention  an  event 
(or  rather  the  news  it  contained)  which  called  so  loudly 
for  gratitude  to  God,  and  which  produced  delightful, 
and,  1  hope,  thankful  emotions. 

For  my  aunt  1  reserve  the  narration  of  domestic  oc- 
currences ;  and  to  you  I  will  give  an  account  of  my 
progress  at  College.  Mr  Walker  is  getting  acquainted 
with  me  in  the  class.    I  am  frequently  called  up,  and  he 


Ill 

seems  to  have  some  confidence  in  me  :  but  the  most 
remarkable  event  since  my  last,  is,  ray  having  bi  eakfast- 
ed  with  the  professor.  Mr  Young  is  still  on  the  grammar. 
We  begin  to  read  Anacreon  to-morrow.  I  have  had  no 
opportunities  in  that  class  ;  and  if  1  had,  I  should  not 
have  been  fully  prepared,  I  fear,  to  improve  them. 
However,  I  have  met  with  no  signal  defeat  ;  and  victo- 
ry must  be  gained  by  perseverance,  or  not  at  all.  The 
worst  part  of  my  situation  is,  that  I  am  thoroughly  coin- 
panionless.  1  can  have  no  companion  but  a  class-fellow,* 
because  it  would  not  be  easy  to  meet  another  so  fre- 
quently, and  so  certainly,  at  leisure  hours  to  both.  I 
should  very  much  like  a  sodality,  pursuing  the  same 
studies,  and  with  a  slight  difference  of  attainment.  This, 
however,  I  have  no  reason  even  to  hope.  I  know  tew 
things  that  would  be  more  useful  to  literary  progress 
than  such  an  association  ;  but  'tis  surely  best  to  dash 
Utopian  visions  from  one — make  the  best  of  the  present 
— and  forget  the  past  and  the  possible.  As  you  dislike 
cross- writing,  and  as  answers  to  my  aunt's  queries  will 
take  up  a  good  deal  of  room,   I  must  at  once  say,  Fale. 


My  very  dear  Aunt, 

You  are  right  in  supposing  me  not  insensible 
of  my  father's  kindness.  I  know  that  whatever  the  fruit 
may  be,  I  owe  it,  under  God,  to  his  culture  ;  and  I  only 
wish  the  ground  were  more  productive.  In  your  low  spir- 

*  In  this,  however,  he  afterwards  found  himself  agreeably  mis- 
taken. 


112 

its  on  your  return,  I  can  sympathise  with  you.  There  is, 
however,  the  consideration,  that  the  same  stroiie  which 
emptied  an  house  on  earth,  filled  a  throne  in  heaven. 
This,  surely,  should  operate,  with  great  strength,  in 
moderating  our  grief.  *  *  *  1  hope  my  dear  aunt  does 
not  injure  herself  by  her  exertions  for  her  adopted  fam- 
ily ;*  she  never  was  accustomed  to  such  labors  :  she 
must  remember,  however,  that  /  have  still  stronger 
claims  upon  her — viz. — to  take  care  of  herself  for  my 
sake.  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  consider  her  as  with  one 
who  loves  her  so  tenderly,  and  attends  to  her  so  kindly  ; 
but  far  more  consoling  to  consider  her  as  under  the 
perpetual  guardianship  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  whose 
love  neither  life,  nor  death  itself  can  impair ;  but  which 
must  be  brightening  while  it  developes  itself  through- 
out eternity  :  and  were  it  not  so  much  easier  simplj'  to 
believe,  than  to  feel  and  to  carry  our  belief  into  every 
day's  transactions  and  thoughts,  this  alone  would  be  suf- 
ficient to  prevent  murmuring,  nay,  almost  even  anxiety. 


Glasgow,  November  26,  1818. 
My  very  dear  Father  and  Aunt,t 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  comfort  a  drowning 
man  by  the  most  eloquent  and  harrowing  descriptions 
of  the  tortures  endured  at  the  stake  ;  and  i'ew^  when 
suffering  under  mental  agony,  would  be  satisfied  with  a 

*  Two  daugli(ers  of  Dr  Philip, 
t  He  always  from  this  time  addressed  us  jointly. 


113 

philosophical  disquisition,  to  prove  that  bodily  pain  is 
still  more  to  be  dreaded  than  distress  of  mind.  In  cir- 
cumstances so  peculiar,  topics  of  consolation,  if  they 
occur  at  all,  resemble  a  desert  scene,  presenting  itself 
where  the  traveller  had  been  taught  to  expect  the  lux- 
uriance of  oriental  verdure,  illuminated  by  the  brillian- 
cy of  an  Italian  sky.  Hence  it  is,  that  philosophy  has 
'^Iways  been  proposing  remedies,  which  mankind  have 
been  ready  to  applaud,  without  ever  being  able  to  apply 
thern  ;  and  like  the  manoeuvres  of  young  soldiers,  which, 
at  the  first  cannon  tliey  hear,  or  the  first  death  they 
witness,  are  entirely  driven  from  their  minds — so,  by 
the  first  storm  of  aflliction,  are  all  the  remedies  of  phi- 
losophy, and  all  the  pride  of  stoicism  forgotten  ;  either 
because  the  rapid  advance  of  the  enemy  leaves  us  no 
time  for  the  collection  of  our  armour  offensive  and  de- 
fensive ;  or  that  the  languor  his  terrible  approach  pro- 
duces, renders  all  our  endeavours,  in  themselves^  as  fee- 
ble as  their  event  is  unsuccessful.  But  there  is  a  state 
of  feeling, — a  kind  of  fluctuation  between  pain  and  plea- 
sure— when  agony,  indeed,  is  not  admitted,  nor  delight 
always  excluded — but  when  the  heart,  though  not  sear- 
ed, is  uncomfortable,  for  want  of  an  outlet  ; — when  the 
affijctions,  though  not  harrowed,  are  galled  ; — and  when, 
without  any  thing,  or  without  much  that  is  disagreea- 
ble in  external  circumstances,  there  is  an  undefined 
something  that  is  distressing,  or,  at  least,  is  a  kind  of 
discomfort — where,  in  other  circumstances,  nothmg 
would  be  seen  but  hilarity  and  joy.  Every  feeling  of 
this  description — call  it  wretchedness,  ennui^  or  what 
you  will — arises,  in   my  opinion,  from  discontent  with 


114 

one's  self,  and  disUke  of  one's  own  company — not  that  do 
1  intend,  which  is  at  once  the  offspring  and  the  nurse  of 
crime,  but  rather  what  may  be  produced  under  almost 
any  circumstances,  and  by  very  many  occurrences, 
which  have  filled  the  mind  with  images  'tis  not  comfort- 
able to  recur  to,  and  which  yet  force  themselves  on  our 
solitary  or  unoccupied  attention. 

It  is  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  consolation  of  every 
sort  is  most  valuable  :  as  a  ship  on  a  dangerous  coast, 
during  a  violent  storm,  may  not  find  the  pilot's  art  of 
any  avail  ;  although,  should  the  tempest  abate,  and  a 
moderately  brisk  gale  succeed  it,  his  aid  will  be  peremp- 
torily required.  My  own  mind  is  not  unfrequently  visit- 
ed with  moods  like  those  I  have  been  describing  ;  and 
though  I  never  give  way  to  grief,  1  cannot  always  de- 
fend myself  from  uneasiness.  In  such  cases,  I  have  no 
refuge  from  myself  except  I  fly  to  my  studies,  which 
are  daily  thickening  upon  me  :  and,  although  I  might, 
without  disgrace,  glide  through  the  College,  (or,  at 
least,  these  classes)  perfectly  at  my  ease  ;  yet  both  my 
real  interests,  and  my  present  inclinations,  prompt  me 
to  take  upon  myself  some  of  that  labor  which  is  so  lib- 
erally distributed  to  those  who  are  willing  ^era  iifjeoTOi- 
Gi  noviiv. 

But  I  am  too  querulous,  and  my  aunt  will  no  longer 
give  me  the  praise  of  "  making  the  best  of  things."  I 
will  therefore,  alter  a  strain  into  which  1  was  led  by 
the  folly  of  attempting  to  analyse  what  was  scarce  worth 
mentioning  ;  but  1  must  needs  catch  a  little  nicety  of 
division,  &,c.  from  Professor  Young.  Mr  Walker  re- 
marked,  when  I  breakfasted  with  him,  that  he  thought 


115 

of  Lord  Byron,  as  a  poet,  just  as  he  should  of  a  success- 
ful and  powerful  painter,  who  yet  was  unable  to  pro- 
duce any  thing  of  merit,  without  introducing,  in  one 
part  of  the  canvass  or  another,  the  entrails  of  a  wound- 
ed man.  To  follow  out  the  same  metaphor, — I  seem 
(not  that  I  pretend  to  Byronian  fire)  to  be  attempting 
your  amusement  and  pleasure  by  the  accurate  delinea- 
tion of  a  sore  finger  !  1  can  only  say,  that  1  possess 
very  many  mercies,  and  so  many  more  than  1  can  de- 
serve, that  to  complain  of  my  lot  would  be  as  ungrateful 
to  their  Author,  as  it  would  be  distressing  to  you,  the 
channels  through  which  they  have  generally  Jlowed 
to  me. 

Since  my  last,  I  have  become  acquainted  with  a  stu- 
dent of  very  respectable  connexions,  considerable  in- 
formation and  classical  learning ;  and,  as  far  as  1  have 
been  able  to  discover,  of  very  good  principles  ;  although 
I  question  whether  he  has  much  of  the  social  springs  the 
vis  vivida  of  companionship.  /  had  heard  of  /«'m,  and 
I  suppose  he  had  heard  of  me.  After  reconnoitring  for 
some  days,  we  just  spoke  to  each  other,  because  we  had 
nobody  else  to  speak  to  ;  so  that  if  this  juxtaposition 
does  not  produce  very  close  cohesion,  yet  the  acquaint- 
ance can  hardly  be  injurious,  and  may  be  agreeable  and 
instructive. 


Glasgow,  January  7,  1819.   (The  day  he  u<as  sixteen.) 

Your  letter  to-day  afforded   me    great   and   un- 
'iniogled  pleasure  ;  and,  I  hope,  inspired  me  with  thank- 


116 

fulness  for  the  mercies  I  experience  through  you.  I 
have  a  good  deal  to  communicate ;  and  therefore  begin 
my  letter  to-day,  being  a  holyday.  I  have,  neverthe- 
less, plenty  to  do  ;  but  my  time  is  not  so  much  cut  up 
as  when  the  classes  meet,  and  prevent  my  doing  any 
thing  before  three,  or  much  before  live  o'clock.  1  dare 
say  I  took  too  much  for  granted,  and  so  talked  an  unin- 
telligible language  in  my  last ;  I  will,  therefore,  des- 
cribe the  whole  process  of  the  examination. 

The  College  Library  is  rather  a  fine  room,  you 
know.  At  the  end,  towards  the  chimnej',  is  placed  a 
table  with  seats  for  professors  at  one  end,  and  a  finely 
carved  oaken  chair,  (presented,  I  think,  by  James  IV. 
and  requiring  three  or  four  men  of  these  degenerate 
days  to  lug  it  about)  at  the  other.  It  has  a  black  mar- 
ble bottom,  which  has,  time  immemorial,  sustained  the 
(literally)  groaning  weight  of  students — probably,  Knox 
and  the  great  Buchanan,  among  the  rest.  It  is  sur- 
mounted by  an  hour-glass  turning  on  a  pivot,  and  sur- 
rounded with  laurel.  Old  John  Machlachlan  stands  be- 
hind, watch  in  hand,  calling  out,  every  five  minutes, 
"  Jld  aliuin^  Domitie,^''  a  warning  voice  given  for  form's 
sake,  and  never  attended  to  by  the  examining  professor. 
Every  person  on  entering  a  new  class,  is  supposed  to 
be  acquainted  with  the  science,  fee.  he  has  left  behind 
him.  Now  as  I  rank  among  the  Grjcci,  I  should  be  ac- 
quainted with  Latin.  My  knowledge  is  to  be  proved 
by  an  examination  conducted  by  the  professor  1  am  sup- 
posed to  have  left.  But  the  general  examination  is, 
necessarily  cursory  and  superficial. — Prizes  then  are 
proposed — five  for  the   Latin,  and   one  or  two  for  the 


117 

Greek  profession  ;  anil  the  examination  ol'  the  competi- 
tors is  comparatively  strict  and  long'.  This,  tlierefore, 
rendered  my  profession  so  tremendous.  The  Humanity 
professor  will  not  judge  himself.  We  (the  competitors) 
chose  our  own  mode  of  trial.  Fifteen  jiidices  were 
elected  by  those,  7iot  competing,  who  profess  this  year. 
These  took  their  seats  close  to  the  table  aforesaid,  not- 
ed down  every  mistake,  and  will  give  judgment  accord- 
ingly. 

The  common  professions  are  attended  by  the  exami- 
nator  and  the  professor  to  whose  class  you  are  going. 
Ours  was,  on  the  contrary,  honored  by  the  attendance 
of  Professors  Walker,  Young,  .Tardine,  Myine,  Mickle- 
ham,  and  Principal  Taylor.  Imagine  me  seated  in  the 
chair,  my  hand  trembling,  while  I  was  reading  aloud  my 
own  profession  ;  then  unable  to  find  the  books  1  was 
asked  for,  and  in  the  utmost  state  of  perturbation. 
When  the  examination  began,  I  felt  myself,  however, 
on  solid  ground  ;  and  Mr  Walkers  kind  manner  quite 
re-assured  me.  I  was  examined  in  four  authors^  out  of 
thirUj-nine  which  1  professed.  In  Persius,  I  was  slight- 
ly embairassed  ;  not  that  I  did  not  understand  him,  so 
much  as  from  the  difficulty  of  finding  English  words  ex- 
actly corresponding  to  the  Latin.  However,  I  did  net 
stop.  I  only  wonder  /  got  on  at  all.  You  may  form 
some  notion  of  the  excitement,  when  I  say,  that  the 
whole  time  occupied  by  my  examination,  did  wot  appear 
to  me  more  than  two  minutes  ;  and  even  now,  'tis  only 
the  evidence  of  the  spectators,  &c.  that  convinces  me 
to  the  contrary. — It  may  be  egotistic,  yet  as  1  know  it 
will  gratify  you,  I  cannot  help  mentioning,  that  a  (ew 
10 


118 

days  ago,  Mr  Walker,  who  has  all  along  been  politely 
kind  and  attentive,  was  pleased  privately  to  congratu- 
late me  on  the  appearance  I  had  made  ;  assuring  me, 
that  the  sentiments  the  Principal  had  expressed  on  the 
subject,  were  in  perfect  accordance  with  his  own. 


119 


During  this  session,  he  indulged  a  little  in  poetic  cooi- 
position.  He  presented  to  Mr  Walker  many — and  some 
of  them  spirited — translations  of  Horace  ;  to  these  he 
refers  in  several  of  his  letters.  He  began,  but,  in  con- 
sequence of  vaany  other  pressing  engagements,  he  left 
unfinished,  a  prize  Carmen  elegiacum  ad  moritrn  RogincE. 
In  addition  to  the  first  prize  at  the  Black  Stone  examin- 
ation, he  gained  another  by  translating  De  Senectute  inlo 
English,  and  re  translating  it,  abridged,  into  his  own 
Latin.  To  this  he  added  copious  notes,  in  English  and 
in  Latin,  "  on  the  opinions  of  the  ancients  concerning 
THE  state  after  DEATH."  I  have  read  it  ;  and  it  cer- 
tainly displays,  for  a  boy  of  sixteen,  uncommon  research, 
and  acumen.  This  additional  part  was  a  perfect  Volun- 
tary,* and  his  kind  professor  announced  in  the  class  that 
it  was  a  manly  attempt.  He  gained  also  the  first  prize, 
among  those  of  his  standing,  for  "  eminent  talents,  in- 
dustry, and  exemplary  behaviour  during  the  session," 
in  the  Latin  ;  and  a  very  respectable  one  for  the  same 
excellencies  in  the  Greek  class.  I  find,  among  his  pa- 
pers of  that  Winter,  an  ingenious  but  unfinished  piece  in 
prose,  attempting  "  to  unfold  the  principle  of  Lord  By- 
ron's poetry," — poetry,  with  which  every  person  of 
taste  must  be  enraptured — over  which  every  person  of 
humanity,  whether  he  considers  the  noble  author  or  the 

*  A  college  word,  used  in  these  memoirs  to  denote  an  essay 
given  in  by  the  student  vohirdarUy  ;  and  not  as  an  enjoined  exer- 
cise. 


120 

public,  must  weep — and  much  of  which  every  christian 
moralist  must  execrate.  While  at  College,  he  read  Bu- 
chanan''s  beautiful  and  classical  translation  of  the  psalms  ; 
which,  upon  the  whole,  he  preferred  to  every  thing, 
whether  ancient  or  modern,  in  the  Roman  language. 
The  THEME  OF  DAVID  gave  an  elevated  character  to  his 
poetry,  which  the  exquisite  taste  of  the  Scottish  bard 
transfused  into  his  almost  native  tongue.  At  this  time, 
he  wrote  one  little  piece,  in  reference  to  his  beloved 
mother,  in  the  style  of  Burn's  "Land  o'  the  Leal," 
which  I  shall  here  present. 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  BLESSED. 

Wo  and  wailing  shall  be  o'er  then, 
Weeping  shall  be  heard  no  more  then, 
Let  us  quickly,  sweetly  soar,  then 

To  the  land  of  the  Blessed. 
No  eye  shall  ever  shed  a  tear  there. 
None  shall  feel  or  grief  or  fear  there, 
Every  face  a  smile  shall  wear  there 

In  the  land  of  the  Blessed. 

They,  whose  wounded,  bleeding  heart  here, 
Learned  how  hard  it  was  to  part  here, 
But  hoped,  amidst  the  sharpest  smart  here, 

For  the  land  of  the  Blessed  ; 
They  have  met  where  zephyrs  blow,  where 
Streams  of  life  immortal  llow,  where 
Those  they  lost  they'll  love  and  know,  where 

Is  the  land  of  the  Blessed. 


121 

Finest  radiance  smiling  round  them, 
Still  increasing  joy  hath  found  them, 
Ever  since  death's  angel  crcwn'd  them 

For  the  land  of  the  Blessed. 
Wo  and  wailing  shall  be  o'er  then, 
Weeping  shall  be  known  no  more  then. 
Let  us  quickly,  sweetly  soar,  then, 

To  the  land  of  the  Blessed. 

A  parent's  decision  may  naturally  be  suspected  of  par- 
tiality. The  extracts,  however,  already  given,  and  es- 
peciall}^  those  hereafter  to  be  offered,  from  William's 
voluminous  papers,  will,  it  is  confidently  hoped,  relieve 
me,  in  the  opinion  of  candid  and  competent  judges, 
from  the  charge  of  an  extravagant  estimate  of  his  pow- 
ers and  attainments.  Anxious,  however,  to  stand  fair 
with  that  public,  before  whom  I  have — perhaps  too  mi- 
nutely— exposed  my  child  and  myself,  1  wished  for  an 
opportunity  of  publicl}'^  recording  the  opinions  which  I 
know  were  entertained  concerning  him  by  those  emi- 
Dent  men  who  conducted  his  education  at  Glasgow  ; 
and  through  Dr  Wardlaw,  the  application  was  made 
to  them.  Willing  to  soothe  the  anguish  of  a  bereav- 
ed father's  heart,  they  have,  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
said  ALL  that  truth  permitted  them  to  say.  But  their 
characters  vouch  for  the  perfect  truth  of  their  testi- 
mony. 1  am  happy  that  Professor  Walker  has  enabled 
me,  at  this  stage  of  the  Memoir,  to  give  his  sentiments. 
To  that  accomplished  sholar,  the  letters  of  this  session 
often  refer,  in  terms  of  warm  affection.  I  regret  ex- 
ceedingly that  a  series  of  untoward  circumstances,  over 
10* 


122 

which  i  had  no  control,  prevented  my  offering  to  him, 
in  person,  while  I  was  at  Glasgow,  the  expression  of 
my  gratitude.  But  1  beg  him  to  accept  this  public  dec- 
laration of  my  obligation  for  a  conduct  marked  with  the 
kindness  of  a  father  towards  my  beloved  child — an  obli- 
gation rendered  still  greater  by  the  following  letter  to 
Dr  Wardlaw  : — 

My  dear  Sir, 

I  HAVE  received  your  note,  and  thank  you  for 
the  opportunity  it  gives  me  of  stating  the  opinion  I  was 
led  to  form  of  the  late  Mr  William  Durant,  while  1  bad 
the  pleasure  of  superintending  his  studies.  That  opin- 
ion, however,  was  so  very  high,  that  1  must  exercise 
caution  in  expressing  it,  lest,  from  those  who  knew  him 
less,  I  incur  (he  charge  of  exaggeration,  or  of  allowing 
my  sorrow  for  his  loss  to  overcharge  the  picture  of  him 
which  I  cherish  in  my  memory.  Even  with  this  danger 
before  me,  1  can  safely  say,  that  his  character,  taken  as 
a  whole,  was  nearly  the  most  perfect  of  any  which  the 
circumstances  of  my  life  have  led  me  to  contemplate 
with  peculiar  interest.  In  each  of  his  good  qualities, 
considered  separately,  he  may  have  had  superiors  ;  but 
seldom  have  I  found  the  assemblage  so  complete,  or  so 
harmoniously  balanced.  An  uncommon  portion  of  nat- 
ural good  sense,  rendered  his  general  conduct  and  de- 
meanor such  as  I  should  wish  to  propose  for  a  model  to 
:ill  my  students.  When  he  entered  my  class,  though  not 
quite  sixteen,  and  surrounded  with  contagious  examples 
of  youthful  levity,  I  never  found  it  necessary  to  check 
him  for  a  single  failure  in  propriety.     Even  at  limes. 


123 

when  the  business  must,  to  him,  have  been  irksome  and 
uninteresting-,  his  nice  sense  of  decorum,  and  the  control 
of  his  gentlemanly  manners,  prevented  him  from  of- 
fending, even  by  an  unseasonable  whisper.  To  myself, 
indeed,  personally,  his  behaviour  was  so  filial,  that  I 
shall  never  think  of  him  without  feelings  approaching 
to  the  affection  and  regret  of  a  parent.  His  steadiness 
was  the  more  meritorious,  as  he  had  nothing  phlegmatic 
in  his  constitution.  He  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  to 
have  a  fair  portion  of  that  buoyancy  of  spirit,  which,  at 
his  age,  is  so  natural  and  graceful ;  but  his  correctness 
of  judgment,  and  delicacy  of  tact  pointed  out  to  him, 
almost  intuitively,  the  seasons  when  it  ought,  or  ought 
not  to  be  indulged.  1  have  been  both  gratified  and 
amused  (when  1  considered  the  general  manliness  of  his 
deportment)  to  see  him,  in  the  hours  of  relaxation,  hu- 
mouring the  playfulness  of  his  younger  class-mates,  and 
captivating  them  by  the  cordiality  with  which  he  joined 
their  gambols. 

Among  our  youth  of  talent,  I  should  place  him  in  the 
highest  class  ;  and  I  should  do  so  on  my  own  judgment, 
even  though  1  were  unsupported  by  the  attestations,  for 
three  successive  years,  of  those  fellow-students,  who, 
no  doubt  watched  him  with  all  the  keen  perspicacity  of 
ambitious,  though  candid  rivals.  There  was  a  singular 
ripeness  in  all  his  faculties,  easily  distinguishable  from 
transient  precocity,  as  their  vigour  and  solidity  were  no 
less  remarkable  than  the  forwardness  of  their  growth. 
On  his  tirst  examination  in  my  class,  1  perceived  his  su- 
periority ;  and  1  ever  after  naturally  turned  to  him  for 
the   answer    of  questions   in   which   others  had  failed. 


124 

While  I  observed  that  there  were  a  few  elementary 
delicacies  in  the  Latin  language,  to  which  his  attention 
had  not  been  previously  directed,  1  could  not  help  ad- 
miring the  facility  with  which  this  disadvantage  was  sur- 
mountedjli  by  the  promptness  of  his  judgment,  and  stead- 
iness of  jiis  attention.  To  these  helps,  however,  he 
did  not  trust.  He  instantly  felt  where  he  was  defective, 
and  his  diligence  in  private,  and  the  skill  which  direct- 
ed his  studies,  were  attested  by  the  rapidity  with  which 
every  defect  was  supplied  ;  till,  at  the  close  of  the  ses- 
sion, his  pre-eminence  became  so  decided,  as  to  draw 
from  his  fellow-students  the  higliest  prize  their  suflra- 
ges  could  bestow.  The  style  of  his  exercises  was,  like 
his  character,  of  a  manly  cast,  but  that  also  could  occa- 
sionally descend  to  a  chaste  and  engaging  liveliness.  I 
recollect,  in  particular,  the  comic  power  which  he  dis- 
played in  sustaining  a  character  in  one  of  the  scenes  of 
Piautus,  and  the  delighted  attention  with  which  he  was 
heard  bv  his  class-fellows.  In  graver  tasks,  his  success 
was,  at  least,  not  inferior  ;  but  from  his  talents  and 
taste,  the  exertion  he  was  making  at  the  moment,  was 
always  apt  to  be  considered  as  his  master-piece.  To 
the  acquisition  even  of  minor  accomplishments,  his  at- 
tention was  alive.  Among  these  was  elocution,  of  his 
success  in  which  he  left  an  impression  on  our  minds. — 
Only  two  or  three  days  before  his  fatal  illness,  he  was 
chosen  to  intimate  from  the  pulpit  the  election  of  the 
Lord  Rector  ;  and  few.)  I  believe,  who  heard  him,  will 
be  disposed  to  deny  that  the  formula  has  seldom  been 
pronounced  with  more  graceful  distinctness,  elegance 
and  dignity.      To  the  excellence  of  his  moral  and  reli- 


125 

gious  character,  you,  who  had  the  hest  opportunity  of 
appreciating-  it,  have  borne  ample  testimony.  There 
was,  however,  something  about  him — certain  appear- 
ances, more  easily  interpreted  than  expressed,  which, 
even  with  my  inferior  means  of  judging,  and  without 
your  satisfactory  attestation,  woukl  have  led  me  to  infer 
the  purity  of  his  conduct,  and  the  soundness  of  his  prin- 
ciples. The  instance  you  give  of  his  invincible  and  une- 
quivocating  adherence  to  truth,  in  resisting  the  oppor- 
tunity he  enjoyed,  of  adding  some  improvements  to  a 
prize  exercise,  I  read  with  peculiar  interest  :  as  it  was 
in  my  class  the  circumstance  took  place,  which,  in  everj 
particular,  was  precisely  as  you  have  stated  it. 

I  have  now,  my  dear  Sir,  endeavoured,  though  imper- 
fectly, to  convey  to  you  the  impression  which  was  made 
upon  my  mind  by  this  amiable  and  learned  youth  :  and 
I  shall  only  add,  that  his  death  has  bereaved  me  of  a 
friend  and  pupil  for  whom  I  felt  a  warm  affection,  and 
who  gave  me  cause  to  flatter  myself  with  a  belief  of  its 
return  ;  and  the  University  of  an  Alumnus,  who,  for  his 
standing,  was  not  inferior  in  accomplishment  and  worth 
to  any  whom  it  has  ever  had  the  honor  to  rear. 

I  am, 

My  dear  Sir, 

Your's,  very  respectfully, 

JosiAH  Walker. 
College,  20lh  February,  1822. 


12G 


HIS    RETURN    IN    1819,    AND    HIS    LABOURS    DURIN© 
THE    VACATION, 

His  return  In  May,  1819,  though  longed  for  as  parents 
alone,  and  widowed  parents  of  such  children,  can  feel, 
happened  to  be  about  the  anniversary  of  bis  dear  moth- 
er's death.  I  have  never,  on  any  other  occasion,  expe- 
rienced so  strange  a  conflict  of  pleasure  and  pain.  VVheo 
reading,  as  usual,  the  scriptures  before  family-prayer, 
on  the  morning  after  his  return,  I  saw  him  opposite  me, 
sitting  hand  in  hand  with  his  aunt,  precisely  as  he  had 
for  years  sat  with  her  who  was  now  no  more,  my  burst- 
ing heart  could  no  longer  repress  its  emotion,  my  voice 
was  choked — my  sobs  became  audible — and,  ere  we 
could  proceed — we — servants  and  all — gave  vent  to  our 
tears.  His  aunt  still  required  his  affectionate  attentions  ; 
her  health  was  no  better  ;  and  soon  after  his  return, 
she  was  seized  with  a  violent  illness,  which  confined 
her  to  her  bed  for  some  weeks. 

During  the  voyage  from  Leith  to  London,  he  formed 
his  plan  of  summer  study  :  and  his  decision  of  charac- 
ter, so  far  as  the  result  depended  on  him,  ensured  its 
accomplishment.  He  determined  to  compose  daily  in 
LATIN,   making   Cicero  his  model — thhice  or  four  times 

A  WEEK  TO  READ  GREEK,  BESIDES  A  CHAPTER,  AT  LEAST,  EVE- 
RY   DAY,  IN  THE  GREEK  TESTAMENT TO  MAKE  A  TRANSLATION 

OF  THE  TRiNUMMus  OF  PLAUTus,  (which  gained  a  prize) — 
and,  which  was  his  magnum  opus — to  compose  an  essay 
ON  the   tribunicial  power   among  the  ROMANS,  (vvhich. 


127 

gained  the  first  prize.)  He  never  skimmed  the  snrface 
of  any  subject  ;  and  this  essaj,  which  would  make  a 
respectable  volume,  displayed  great  research  and  un- 
common discrimination.  He  formed,  almost  in  an  in- 
stant, the  plan  of  his  work  ;  and,  that  he  might  treat  it 
as  he  ought,  he  read  HallanCs  Middle  Jlges^ — a  dry,  but 
profound  work,  which  enters  deeply  into  the  question 
of  governments — KenneCs  Antiquities — Bankes^s  Civil 
and  Constitutional  History  of  Rome — Hookes''s  Roman  His- 
tory— the  Latin  rvriters,  who  had  referred  to  the  subject 
— and,  above  all,  Lrvv.  His  method  with  the  last  au- 
thor, was — to  read,  in  the  original,  one  volume  every 
week,  for  the  first  seven  weeks  after  his  return,  mak- 
ing, as  he  proceeded,  the  necessary  references  and  ex- 
tracts for  his  work.  He  elfected  this,  chiefly  by  the 
bed-side  of  the  beloved  sufferer.  He  disturbed  her  not 
—  was  ready  to  converse  with  her  whenever  she  pleas- 
ed— and  to  assist  her,  or  call  for  assistance,  whenever 
she  needed  it.  In  this  work,  he  did  not  receive  the 
slightest  assistance  ;  and  had  I  offered  him  my  aid,  he 
would  have  refused  it.  He  was  most  scrupulous  never 
to  present  a  line  that  was  not  entirely  his  own.  A  strik- 
ing instance  of  his  honour  in  this  respect  was  given  dur- 
ing this  or  the  following  summer,  in  a  translation  of  the 
Somnium  Scipianis.  I  compared  it  with  the  original ; 
and  found  that,  owing  to  the  obscurity  of  the  thing  it- 
self, and  especially  owing  to  his  ignorance  of  the  terms  of 
music^  he  had  given  no  very  intelligible  view  of  that 
odd  passage  respecting  the  spheres,  which  begins 
"  JVonne  aspicis^  quo;  in  tetnpla.  veneris  ?  novem  tibi  orbi- 
6«s,"  &c.     Understanding  myself  a  little — though  very 


128 

little — of  music,  I  wrote  out  a  translation  of  that  part, 
and  presented  it  to  him.  He  smiled,  and  said,  '•  That 
is  better  than  mine — but  I  must  send  it  in  with  all  its 
imperfections  on  its  head  :  it  is  understood  to  be, 
throughout  my  translation." — I  loved  and  venerated  him 
the  more  for  his  perfect  honesty.  It  gained  no  prize  : 
that  fell  to  the  lot,  I  think,  of  Mr  Sandford,  son  of  the 
Bishop  of  Edinburgh,  and  brother  of  the  present  Greek 
professor  at  Glasgow. 

He  also  wrote,  in  a  burlesque  style,  a  very  humorous 
Voluntary^  descriptive  of  college  life,  which  displayed 
considerable  talent  for  that  kind  of  composition.  It 
neither  gained,  nor  was  intended  to  gain,  a  prize  ;  but 
was  thrown  in  as  a  work  of  supererogation;  either  to 
make  the  professor  smile,  or  to  convince  him  that  he 
had  not  only  been  tar  from  idle,  but  intensely  active 
during  his  five  months'  vacation.  In  the  course  of  the 
summer,  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the  logic  class,  we 
read  Watts's  Logic,  D.  Stewart's  Elements,  &c.  In  a 
part  of  this  we  were  accompanied  hy  a  young  French 
gentleman,  Mr  Hine,  then  visiting  at  our  house  ;  who 
was  to  become  his  class-fellow  at  College  ;  who  there 
ranked  among  his  dearest  friends  ;  and  who  expressed 
his  friendship  towards  us  by  assiduous  attentions  at  my 
son^s  dying  bed,  and  by  mingling  his  tears  with  mine  at 
his  grave. 

The  Essay  on  the  Tribunicial  power  is  much  too  long 
^^'  for   insertion   in  these  memoirs.     It  consists  of — An  In- 
TRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. — CHAPTER  II.  tsthick  Contains   pre- 
liminary  considerations   on  Roman  Government^  from  the 
foundation  of  the  city,  to  the  year  (JJ.  C.)  260. — Chapter 


129 

III.  Reaches  from  the  year  2G0,  to  the  year  3  10,  ii^hen  pay 
was  jirsi  given  to  ihc  soldiers. — Chapter  iv.  Reaches  from 
the  year  349,  to  the  tribunate  of  T.  Gracchus^  in  the  year 
619. — Chapter  v.  Extending  from  the  year  619,  to  the 
breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War  in  703. — Chapter  vi.  Con- 
siders,—  IVas  the  tribunal  power  injurious  or  beneficial  to 
the  state  ? 

The  copy  in  my  popsefsion  is  less  perfect  than  that 
which  was  given  in  at  College  :  for  he  improved  it,  and, 
in  some  slight  degree,  altered  the  arrangement,  after 
his  arrival  at  Glasgow,  and  before  the  prescribed  season 
for  its  delivery  to  the  Professor.  As  the  first  and  last 
chapters  are  not  long,  I  will  give  them  as  specimens  of 
his  style  at  a  little  more  than  sixteen  years  of  age. 


IT 


I 


130 


ESSAY  ON  THE  TRIBUNICIAL  POWER. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


CHAP.    1. 

"  ETERNAL  ROME  !"— "  Eternal  !  !"— "  And  this 
is  little  man's  eternity  !"  might  the  moralist  exclaim, 
were  he  disposed  to  moralize  amid  her  nodding  arches^ 
her  roofless  temples,  her  broken  columns,  her  mould- 
ering porticoes,  her  ruined  theatres,  her  desecrated 
shrines  !  Yet,  if  he  were  inclined  to  take  a  more  en- 
couraging, and,  perhaps,  a  less  misanthropic  view  of  hu- 
man labour,  genius  and  glory,  he  might  find  something 
to  raise  his  spirits,  should  he  happen  to  remember  Hor- 
ace's triumphant  prophecy,  so  certainly  fulfilled,  and 
still  in  the  course  of  fulfilment. 

Nod  omnis  moriar,  multaque  pars  mei 
Vitabit  Libitinam  ! 

Such  an  observer  might  feel  almost  proud  of  our 
common  nature,  should  he  turn  to  contemplate  the 
breathing,  burning,  everliving  thoughts,  that  glow  in  the 
pages  of  a  Virgil ;  or  should  he  give  himself  up  to  the 
magic  charm  which  the  descriptions  of  a  Livy  still  throw 


t 


131 

round  the  ruins  of  what  once  was  Rome — ruins,  where 
every  object   meeting  the  eye  proclaims  the  instabiUty 
of  empires,  the   fluctuations   of  human  affairs,  and   the 
transitory  nature  of  earthly  splendor;   while  it  reminds 
the  observer,  that  in  the  closet  of  some  laborious,  and, 
perhaps,   neglected   recluse,  monuments  were    reared, 
which,  after   having   withstood   the  shock   of  time,  and 
survived   the   wreck   of  ages,  still   continue   to   bestow 
on  the  ruins  of  palaces  and  the  vestiges  of  ancient  gran- 
deur, an  intense,  although  melancholy  interest,  that  con- 
querors and  senates,  heroes  and  emperors,  would  never 
have  been  able  to  confer. 

Yet  it  is  precisely  all  this  fine  feeling  and  classic 
prepossession,  of  which  the  diligent  inquirer  into  the  in- 
fancy of  Rome  must  strip  himself:  it  is  especially  against 
this  enthusiasm,  against  these  associations,  that  he  finds 
it  necessary  to  be  on  his  guard. 

We  must  be  content  to  give  up  every  theory,  how- 
ever beautiful, — every,  however  plausible,  conjecture, 
which  would  induce  us,  among  the  military  barbarians 
of  infant  Rome,  to  look  for  retined  policy,  philosophical 
legislation,  or  measures  of  resistance  to  the  arbitrary 
power  of  the  crown  or  aristocracy,  sufficiently  enlight- 
ened to  call  for  our  praise,  or  so  rational  as  to  deserve 
commendation. 

Even  after  the  expulsion  of  the  king^,  and  alter  a 
form  of  government  had  been  established,  more  con- 
formable to  the  wishes,  opinions  or  prejudices  of  the 
aristocratic  leaders,  wlio  headed  the  revolution,  we 
ought  to  be  extremely  careful  hovv  we  credit  all  the 
s{)!endid  and  imposing  accounts  which  historians  relate 


132 

about  the  popular  assemblies,  or  infant  senate.  It  will 
be  confessed  that  the  earlier  secessions  have  much  more 
the  appearance  of  a  military  mutiny  than  of  a  rational 
plan,  laid  by  wise  politicians,  and  executed  by  enlight- 
ened freemen  ;  while  the  tumults  of  the  campus  and  the 
seditions  of  the  forum,  stript  of  their  imposing  names, 
are  easily  resolvable  into  the  dignity  of  a  Spa-fields  mob, 
or  the  calm  and  judicious  determinations  of  a  Westmin- 
ster election. 

The  task  of  discussing  the  questions  about  the  claims 
to  authenticity,  possessed   by  early  Roman  history,  falls 
as  little  within  the  scope  of  the  present  essay,  as  it  does 
within  the  capacities  of  the  \vriter.     It   i.<  sufficient  for 
our  purpose  to  assume,  what  all  parties  are,  we  suppose, 
sufficiently  ready  to  admit,  that  the  leading  facts  of  an- 
cient  story  are  as  correct  as  its  minuter  details  may  be 
suspicious;  tiiat  original   documents  existed;  and,  that 
wherever  tiiey  did  exist,  the   ancient  historians   were 
sufficiently    willing  to  avail   themselves   of  their   assis- 
tance ;  that  original  documents  were  nevertheless  scan- 
ty,  meagre,   corrupted  :     and    that   where   original   in- 
formation failed,  the  eloquence  and  ingenuity  of  the  Au- 
gustan  age  wore    employed    to   suf)ply  the   deficiency  ; 
that  it  was   sometimes  easy,  and  generally  possible,  to 
distinguish    spurious   authorities    from    genuine, — truth 
from  falsehood, — certainty  from  conjecture  ; — and   that 
wherever  such  a  possibility  existed,  neither  acumen  was 
wanting  to  penetrate  the  sul)ject,  nor  intellect  to  illume 
it ;  tliat  it  was,  nevertheless,  sometimes  an  Herculean  la- 
bour to  separate  the  precious  from  the  vile,  and  to  draw 
a  line  between  what  was  possible  and  what  was  incredi- 


133 

ble  ;  between  what  was  probable  and  what  was  certain  ; 
and  that,  where  the  difficulty  appeared  insurmountable, 
the  historian,  finding  himself  loosened  from  the  strict 
trammels  of  fact,  sometimes  launched  into  the  shoreless 
s^a  of  conjecture  ;  suffered  himself  to  be  seduced  by  the 
temptation  of  delighting  his  readers  at  the  expense  of 
historical  accuracy;  determined  to  interest,  although 
unable  tt)  satisfy;  and  set  himself  to  sway  the  heart, 
when  he  found  it  difficult  or  impossible  to  guide  the 
judgment,  or  enlighten  the  understanding. 

And  yet,  in  granting  all  this,  we  have,  in  fact,  con- 
ceded nothing  more  than  almost  every  man,  uninfluen- 
ced by  party  feeling,  antiquarian  predilection,  or  violent 
nationality,  would  be  prepared  to  admit  as  to  each  of 
the  writers  who  have  touched  on  the  remoter  history 
of  our  own  island. 

After  all  the  acuteness,  philosophy,  and  conjecture 
which  have  been  spent  on  the  proof,  or  on  the  illustra- 
tion, of  our  own  legal  and  constitutional  antiquities,  few, 
perhaps,  who  are  not  devoted  to  the  support  of  a  sj'S- 
tem,  will  assert,  that  either  our  acquaintance  with  the 
code  of  each  several  state,  which  went  to  compose  the 
Heptarchy,  or  our  knowledge  of  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges inherent  in  the  Wittenagemote,  extends  much 
farther  than  does  our  information  about  the  institutions 
of  Romulus,  or  the  legislation  and  classification  contriv- 
ed and  effected  by  Servius. 

But  while  few  things  are  less  necessary,  and  scarce- 
ly any  thing  of  the  kind  more  presumptuous,  than  at 
once  to  refuse  credit  to  all  the  accounts  givoji  by  Roman 
hisloi'ians  concerning  their  own  antiquities ;  and  fear- 

n* 


134 

lessly  to  class  the  elegant  narrations  of  a  Liry  with  the 
improbable  fictions  of  Gothic  chroniclers,  and  monkish 
historians  ;  yet  it  might  argue,  not  indeed  equal  arro- 
gance, but  at  least  a  sufficiently  blind  veneration  for  au- 
thorit}^,  even  when  supported  only  by  the  magic  of  a 
name,  should  we  receive,  without  examination,  all  the 
reports  of  ancient  writers  ;  some  few  of  whose  sources 
of  information  we  ourselves  possess  ;  while  to  others  of 
their  authorities  the  very  wrilersin  question  have  intro- 
duced us  so  as  to  put  it  in  our  power  to  conjecture,  at 
least,  the  strength  of  the  foundation  on  which  the  whole 
superstructure  rests. 

After  all  the  superiority  which  not  only  the  intrin- 
sic merit  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  authors,  but  also  the 
prejudices  of  our  earlier  years,  may  incline  us  to  attrib- 
ute to  the  ancients;  yet  every  man,  who  is  an  enlight- 
ened worshipper,  rather  than  a  bigolted  devotee,  will 
l»e  ready  to  admit,  without  either  reservation  or  reluc- 
tance, that  there  are  some  laurels  of  literary  glory, 
which  must  be  resigned  to  the  moderns  ;  and  that  there 
exist  extensive  tracts  in  the  territories  of  both  science 
and  philosophy,  where  no  victories  were  won,  no  con- 
quests achieved  by  the  aculeness  of  Greece,  or  by  Ro- 
man research  and  erudition  ;  but  which,  nevertheless, 
have  been,  in  later  ages,  conquered,  cultivated,  and,  (to 
keep  up  the  allusion)  subjected  to  a  kind  of  agrarian  di- 
vision ;  by  which,  every  man,  who  has  any  connexion 
at  all  with  the  republic  of  letters,  has  obtained,  in  that 
particular  part  of  her  dominions,  larger  possessions  than 
any,  with  the  very  existence  of  which  those  who  for- 
merly filled   her  highest  offices,  or  had  obtained  admis- 


135 

sion  to  her  most  hidden  treasures,  were  in  the  sHghtest 
degree  acquainted. 

Such  an  admission  will  by  no  means  diminish  the 
reverence  with  which  we  are  accustomed  to  regard  the 
brilliant  thoughts,  the  just  and  noble  sentiments,  the 
knowledge  of  human  principles  and  feelings,  in  which 
consists  the  true  and  the  only  imperishable  glory  of  the 
classical  writers:  we  shall,  perhaps,  be  induced  to  look 
upon  their  works  with  the  feelings  in  which  we  may 
suppose  a  skilful  architect  to  indulge,  while  contemplat- 
ing the  fragments  of  some  magnificent,  but  ancient  ruin. 
No  man  would  be  less  disposed  than  he  to  admit  a  sin- 
gle sentiment  of  indifference  ;  or  be  less  likely  to  expe- 
rience a  single  feeling  not  partaking  even  of  enthusi- 
asm ;  and  yet  there  would  surely  be  no  proof  of  his  not 
having  a  proper  feeling  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
if,  while  entranced  in  those  delightful,  yet  melancholy 
reflections,  with  which  such  scenes  always  inspire  a 
man  of  taste,  he  should  occasionally  perceive  a  deficien- 
cy which  modern  inventions  would  have  enabled  the 
original  artist  to  supply,  or  a  fault  which  modern  sci- 
ence  would  have  taught  him  to  correct. 

Is  it  not,  then,  allowable  to  class  among  modern  im- 
provements, that  attention  which  has  been  paid  by  our 
historians,  as  well  as  by  professional  men,  to  the  philos- 
ophy of  history  in  general,  and  especially  of  legal  his- 
tory ?  Here  there  is  some  danger  perhaps  of  being 
misunderstood.  We  are,  I  should  apprehend,  by  no 
means  warranted  to  assert  that  the  Roman  historians 
are  excelled  by  those  of  modern  Europe,  in  knowledge 
of  character,  in  truth  of  sentiment,  in  force  of  colouring, 


136 

in  perspicuity  of  style,  in  accuracy  of  delineation.  Livy, 
Saliust,  and  Tacitus,  form  an  illustrious, — and  we  may, 
perhaps,  say,  an  unequalled — triad,  although  their  ex- 
cellencies were  of  dilferent  kinds.  The  tirst  may  re- 
mind us  of  some  beautiful  paintings,  where,  even  if  a 
martyrdom  be  the  subject,  a  distant  glory  is  introduced 
to  throw  a  tint  of  magic  brilliance  over  the  prospect; 
while  the  works  of  the  two  other  historians  resemble, 
perhaps,  the  productions  of  a  Fuseli,  where,  even  amid 
paradisaic  scenery,  some  form  of  evil  is  dimly  seen 
threatening  to  blast  and  to  destroy. 

That  part  of  the  civilized  world  which  was  known 
to  Roman  historians,  consisted  of  Greece,  Italy  and  Asia. 
In  these  countries,  the  constitutions  then  existing  were 
most  simple  in  their  first  principles  ;  and  may,  all  with 
ease,  be  divided  into  classes,  under  one  or  other  of  which 
will  naturally  fall  almost  every  form  of  government 
known  to  the  Latin  authors  ;  without  here  entering  on 
a  discussion  (where  even  a  learned  writer  might  chance 
to  be  nonplused)  concerning  the  Aboriginal  inhabitants 
of  Greece  and  Italy,  it  may,  with  tolerable  certainty,  be 
asserted  of  the  former  country,  that  its  civilization  came 
from  Asia — the  cradle  of  knowledge  ;  or  from  Egypt — 
the  nurse  of  infant  science  ;  while  not  only  natural  con- 
jecture, but  even,  1  should  imagine,  remains  of  the  re- 
motest antiquity  will  induce  us  even  concerning  Italy, 
to  arrive  at  a  similar  conclusion. 

Be  this  as  it  may — it  does  appear,  that  at  a  period  ear- 
lier than  any  to  which  very  authentic  history  reaches ; 
Greece,  the  Grecian  settlements  in  Italy,  and  (in  a  cer- 
tain sense)  even  the   Etruscan  confederacy,  were  divid- 


137 

ed,  and  subdivided  into  a  number  of  little  independent 
kingdoms,  or  chieftainsliips  ;  in  which  the  monarch, 
(and  the  Lucumones  appear  to  have  been  monarchs, 
without  the  name  of  king,)  acted  in  the  double  capacity 
of  judge  during  peace,  and  commander  or  chieftain  in 
time  of  war.  To  whatever  cause  this  minute  subdivision 
of  territory  is  attributable,  to  it,  probably,  we  may  as- 
cribe the  free  spirit  of  the  ancients  : — every  freeman 
was  a  soldier,  and  could  resist  oppression  ;  no  man  could 
learn  to  esteem  a  domestic  tyrant  beyond  the  efforts,  or 
above  the  reach,  of  his  vengeance  :  no  man  could  be 
brought  to  feel  indifferent  to  revolutions  going  on  twelve 
miles  distant,  perhaps,  from  the  extremest  frontier  of 
the  empire. 

The  history  of  these  little  states  is,  of  course,  pret- 
ty uniform  , — some  ambitious  prince  ripened  authority 
into  power  ;  power  into  tyranny  ; — the  people  murmur- 
ed, rebelled,  and  succeeded  in  establishing  a  republican 
form  of  government ; — the  republic,  after  the  first  strug- 
gle was  over,  became  comparatively  rich  and  powertul  : 
— riches  and  power  rendered  her  corrupt  ;  and  her  cor- 
ruption presented  her  an  easy  prey  to  some  aspiring 
and  daring  spirit,  who,  without  much  ditficulty,  contriv- 
ed to  enslave  her.  His  descendants  probably  carried 
tyranny  beyond  the  bounds  of  human  endurance.  The 
republic  was  restored,  and  with  it  nothing  of  its  spirit, 
except  its  licence  and  its  intrigues.  A  scene  of  anarchy 
ensued,  till  the  republic,  wearied  with  intestine  commo- 
tions, and  exhausted  by  the  contests  of  jarring  fictions, 
sunk  under  the  power  of  some  stronger  neighbour  ;  who, 
in  his  turn,  was  doomed  to  yield  to  a  still  more  formida- 


138 

ble  antagonist ;  till  the  world  at  length,  crouched  be- 
neath the  imperial  sceptre,  and  till  all  divisions  ofterri- 
tory  were  sunk,  all  national  distinctions  absorbed  in  the 
ROMAN  EMPIRE. 

When  we  consider  all  this  ;  and,  in  addition  to  it, 
remeaiber  that  the  most  splendid  aera  of  Roman  litera- 
ture must  be  fixed  at  a  period  when  liberty  had  just  de- 
parted ;  when  her  pulse  had  just  ceased  to  beat;  and 
when  an  imperial  patron  discouraged,  undoubtedly,  if 
he  did  not  entirely  extinguish,  the  "  burning  grief" 
which  might  otherwise  have  animated  the  admirers  of 
freedom  among  the  literati  of  the  empire  ;  we  shall  not 
wonder  if  the  Roman  historians  are  comparatively  silent 
about  the  origin  of  forms,  the  spirit  of  which  they  saw 
was  departed  ;  or  if  they  were  rather  indifferent  in  trac- 
ing the  progress  of  a  constitution  which  had  ended  in  a 
splendid  despotism,  that  preserved,  indeed,  shadows 
which  centuries  of  glory  had  rendered  venerable,  while 
the  true  principle  of  vitality  was  removed,  the  flaoie  of 
liberty  finally  extinguished. 

Some,  if  not  all,  of  these  causes  operated  with  equal 
force  on  the  Greek  historians,  whose  writings  convey  to 
us  so  much  information  concerning  the  remoter  history 
of  that  city  which  afterwards  became  the  ruler  of  the 
world.  Neither  class  of  writers  were  able  to  refer  to 
any  constitution  distinguished  for  the  wisdom  of  its  de- 
sign, the  beauty  of  its  outhne,  or  the  harmony  of  its  pro- 
portions. Despotism,  democracy,  and  oligarchy,  with 
their  several  modifications  of  evil,  rather  than  approxi- 
mations to  good,  were  the  only  forms  of  polity  with 
which  the  ancients  were  acquainted.     There  was,  then, 


139 

in  the  enquiry  little  to  stimulate  curiosity, — nothing  to 
reward  exertion. 

Is  it  wonderful,  that,  under  such  circumstances,  they 
turned  with  satisfaction  to  the  contemplation  of  military 
glory?  The  laurels  were  yet  unfaded  on  the  brow  of 
Rome,  her  spear  was  yet  unbroken,  and  she  appeared 
to  possess  the  vigor  of  youth  united  to  all  the  claims  on 
universal  respect^  which  antiquity  could  confer.  It  re- 
quired the  eye  of  an  observer  more  penetrating  than 
the  mass  of  mankind,  in  order  to  see  that  the  principle 
of  mortality  was  busily  at  work  within;  that  the  poi- 
sonous draught  was  administered  ;  that  her  beauty  was 
the  hectic  flush  of  disease,  and  her  apparent  vigor  only 
that  short  blaze  of  life,  which  sometimes  precedes  its 
utter  extinction,  and  which  must  soon  sink,  with  a  ra- 
pidity .proportioned  to  the  brilliance  of  its  momentary 
flame  ! 

Thus,  then,  1  have  endeavoured  to  account  for  the 
existence  of  a  deficiency  which  I  have,  perhaps  without 
good  reason,  attributed  to  the  classical  historians.  I 
have  also,  in  this  introductory  chapter  mentioned  my 
own  views  concerning  the  authenticity  of  Rome's  re- 
moter historj^  ; — not  that  I  was  arrogant  enough  to  con- 
ceive my  own  opinions  to  be  of  any  importance  on  so 
intricate  a  subject ;  but  merely  because  it  was  necessa- 
ry to  state  principles  which  must  have  so  considerable 
a  degree  of  influence  over  all  my  succeeding  specula- 
tions. 

The  conclusions,  which  seem  naturally  to  flow  from 
the  imperfect  statements  of  this  chapter,  appear  to  be, 
1st,  That  while  our  faith  in  the  accounts   given  us  by 


140 

Roman  historians  ought  to  be  progressively  complete 
in  proportion  as  the  events  they  record  approach  their 
own  times;  our  opinion  of  that  part  of  their  own  histo- 
ry which  regards  their  remotest  antiquities,  ought  to  be 
as  far  removed,  on  the  one  hand,  from  what  I  must  be 
allowed  to  call  arrogant  scepticism,  as  it  should  be,  on 
the  other,  from  implicit  or  unshaken  confidence  ;  2d\y^ 
That  the  almost  exclusive  attention  paid  by  ancient  his- 
torians to  military  aflfairs,  leaves  their  civil  and  (if  the 
term  be  admissible)  constitutional  antiquities  peculiarly 
open  to  modern  conjecture  and  speculation. 

While  on  this  subject,  I  would  once  more  observe, 
that  the  discrepancies  we  find  in  their  own  accounts  of 
their  remoter  antiquities,  go  far  to  prove  that  with  them- 
selves very  much  was  conjecture  ;  and  that  of  their  ear- 
lier chronology,  much  was  founded  on  probabilities  or 
traditions,  which  are  but  uncertain  guides  in  so  strict  a 
science. 


HI 


CHAP.  VI. 

Considers, —  Was  the  Tribunicial  power  injurious 
or  benejicial  to  the  state  ? 

The  history  of  the  Tribunicial  power,  while  it  forms 
the  princip.ii,  does  not  form  the  exchisive  object  of  tlie 
present  essay  :  and  in  consequence  of  the  form  in  which 
the  exercise  was  prescribed,  I  feel  myself  bound  to  en- 
ter into  a  separate  discussion  of  the  question  on  which 
it  is  my  intention,  in  this  chapter,  modestly  to  offer  an 
opinion.  But  as  it  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  rear 
a  firm  and  consistent  superstructure  till  tlie  inequalities 
of  the  surface  are  planed  away  ;  so  it  would  noi  be  easy, 
were  it  even  at  all  practicable,  to  form  any  well-found- 
ed opinion  at  present,  without  first  endeavouring  to  re- 
move all  those  extraneous  accretions  which,  although 
not  belonging  to  the  subject,  are  so  intimately  blended 
with  it,  that  they  perplex  our  inquiries,  and  increase 
our  labour;  or,  without  striving  to  do  away  with  the 
influence  of  all  those  connected,  but  unessential  circum- 
stances which,  unnecessarily  distracting  our  attention, 
either  entirely  defeat  us  in  our  attempts  to  ascertain  the 
truth,  or  at  all  events  lead  us,  by  the  most  circuitous 
route,  to  the  attainment  of  an  object,  of  which  they, 
nevertheless,  ultimately  suffer  us  to  acquire  possession. 
The  following,  then,  are  the  rules  on  which  the  sub- 
sequent inquiry  ought,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  to  be  con- 
ducted : — 1.  We  must  in  this  place  forbear  indulging  in 
12 


142 

comparisons  betueen  the  provisions  for  general  and  per= 
sonal  freedom,  which  existed  in  ancient  Rome,  and  those 
on  vvhicli  our  own  country  so  justly  prides  herself.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  deny  that  a  mental  exercise  of  the 
kind  to  which  I  have  referred  is,  on  many  occasions, 
both  pleasant  and  profitable  ;  but  any  comparisons,  such 
as  have  been  alluded  to,  would  transgress  the  prescrib- 
ed limits.  For  the  question  is  simply  this — "  Was  the 
Tribunicial  power  in  Rome  injurious  or  beneficial  to  the 
state?"  And  we  have,  consequently,  nothing  at  present 
to  do  with  another  question,  at  first  apparently  similar, 
but  in  reality  widely  differing  from  the  preceding — 
"How  nearly  did  this  popular  institution  approach  the 
ideal,  or  even  the  attainable,  standard  of  political  per- 
fection ?■' 

II.  It  is  improper  to  attempt  to  decide  on  the  merits 
of  the  office,  as  a  whole,  without,  in  the  first  place,  con- 
templating it  in  the  several  distinct  periods  of  its  exist- 
ence. The  question  before  us,  although  apparently  in 
itself  so  general,  and,  at  first  view,  requiring  only  a 
general  reply  ;  yet  can,  in  fact,  be  answered  only  by 
an  examination  of  particulars,  by  taking  up  separate 
periods,  by  entering  into  separate  discussions  on  each 
of  them,  and  by  remaining  content  with  the  unenlivened 
dulness  of  a  patient  investigation,  without  indulging  in 
flashes  of  eloquence,  did  we  possess  it,  or  in  bursts  of 
declamation  to  supply  its  place. 

HI.  It  must  be  an  object  in  this  last  stage  of  the  pres- 
ent essay,  accurately  to  distinguish  between  the  faults 
of  the  office  and  those  of  any  particular  officer  or  set  of 
officers ;  between  the  violence  ascribable  to  the  nature 


143 

of  the  institution,  and  that  which  is  attributable  to  the 
oppressive  measures  of  the  nobility  ;  between  effects 
resulting  from  the  natural  elasticity  of  the  spring-,  and 
those  which  were  occasioned  by  its  rebounds,  when  the 
overweening  pride  of  the  aristocracy  had  compressed  it, 
till  further  compression  was  impossible. 

On  these  principles,  then.  I  would  first  divide  the 
history  of  tribunicial  power  into  three  great  portions. 
I.  From  the  year  260,  to  the  year  349.  11.  From  the 
year  319,  to  the  yeac  619.  111.  From  the  year  619,  to 
the  year  703. 

Before  proceeding,  it  may  not  be  improper  just  to 
remark,  that  when  1  take  into  consideration  the  question 
which  we  are  now  discussing,  I  look  upon  the  following 
as  its  equivalent  :  Was  the  tribunicial  power  produc- 
tive of  more  happiness  than  misery  ?  The  object  of  all 
political  institutions  is,  I  imagine,  the  happiness  of  the 
mass  of  society  ;  so  that  our  inquiries  will  not  be,  What 
did  the  Plebians  gain  ?  What  did  the  aristocrats  lose  ? 
Was  the  progress  of  Roman  conquests  facilitated  or  im- 
peded, quickened  or  retarded,  by  tribunicial  power  ? 

I.  In  the  first  place,  then — In  considering  the  events 
of  the  first  period,  with  a  view  thereupon  to  form  our 
judgment  on  the  question  before  us,  we  should  remem- 
ber that,  betore  the  year  260,  there  was  actually  exist- 
ing no  inconsiderable  portion  of  real  and  intolerable  op- 
pression. The  creation  of  the  tribunicial  office  did  not 
arise  from  the  desire  of  realizing  a  theory  ;  nor  was  its 
erection  or  its  subsequent  increase  the  consequence  of  a 
vain  and  arrogant  system  of  sophistry,  working  on  the 
prejudices  of  a  half  enlightened  nation  of  soi-disan(s 
philosophers. 


144 

It  was  the  cry  of  unmitigated  wo  ;  it  was  the  postuce 
of  desperate  deliance,  that  alarmed  the  aristocracy  into 
a  grant  of  privileges,  which  it  was  no  longer  in  their 
power  to  withhold  ;  and  wrung  from  the  patncian  par- 
tizans  concessions  which  they  were  no  longer  able  to 
delay. 

Now,  then,  this  part  of  the  inquiry  before  us  just 
resolves  itself  into  another  question.  From  the  year 
260,  to  the  year  349,  Did  the  misery  occasioned,  and 
the  happiness  destroyed,  by  the  exertions  of  tribunicial 
power,  preponderate  over  the  misery  which  it  prevent- 
ed, and  the  happiness  of  which  it  was  the  cause  ? 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  present,  in  a  short  space, 
all  the  great  injuries  effected  by  the  tribunes  during  the 
period  under  review  ;  which  injurious  proceedings 
were  of  serious  detriment  to  the  Roman  commonwealth. 
But  as  the  principal  evil  was  occasioned,  not  by  tempo- 
rary etTorts,  but  by  that  perpetual  tendency  to  irritation, 
which  the  tribunicial  power  contributed  to  excite  and 
to  keep  up  ;  as  almost  all  the  more  violent  attacks  on 
the  patricians,  as  well  as  the  more  unwarrantable  meas- 
ures of  the  tribunes,  are  attributable  to  the  aristocrat- 
ic pride  and  severity  of  the  other  party  ;  and  as  history 
almost  necessarily  presents  us  with  the  tumultuous  ef- 
forts of  the  tribunes,  rather  than  with  the  constant 
effects  of  tribunicial  interference  ;  I  shall  turn  to  the 
brighter  side  of  the  picture,  and  consider,  for  a  moment, 
what  this  magistracy  did  for  the  support  of  popular 
rights  and  the  promotion  of  general  happiness. 

And  here,  too,  I  would  remark,  that  we  are  to  ap- 
preciate the  .effects  of  tribunicial  power,  not  so  much 


143 

by  the  large  concessions  which  it  might  occasionally 
force  from  the  nobility  ;  not  by  its  temporary  exertions 
of  extraordinary,  and,  perhaps,  illegal  authority  ;  but 
rather,  by  the  constant  progress  in  liberal  notions  and 
i'eelmgs  ;  hy  the  uninterrupted  advance  of  the  people 
toward  their  tinal  object  ;  and  by  the  constant  protec- 
tion afforded  to  the  great  body  of  the  commons,  by 
magistrates  from  among  themselves,  and  of  their  own 
appointment. 

When  we  consider  the  advantages  thus  obtained  for 
the  cause  of  freedom  ;  the  regular  code  of  laws  collect- 
ed and  made  public  ;  the  misery  actually  remedied  ; 
and  the  unhappiness  probal)ly  prevented  ; — I  am  inclin- 
ed to  think  that  we  shall  be  disposed  to  excuse  the  tu- 
mults of  intemperate  zeal,  and  the  occasional  insolence 
of  the  plebeian  magistrates  ;  and  we  shall  be  almost 
prepared  to  admit  the  general  utility  of  the  plebeian 
magistracy  during  the  period  under  review. 

I  have  time,  however,  only  cursorily  to  notice  the  ar- 
gument, without  dwelling  on  it ;  and  it  is  now  necessary  to 
proceed  to  the  second  period  proposed  for  consideration. 

Soon  after  the  commencement  of  the  second  period, 
(in  3i9)  a  series  of  extraordinary  events  (in  36  5)  par- 
alysed, for  a  moment,  the  power  and  the  spirit  of  Ro:ne. 
The  cause  of  the  plebians  seems  to  have  received  a 
considerable  check,  and  the  division  between  the  high 
and  the  low,  the  great  and  the  insigniticant,  the  rich  and 
the  poor  commoners  gradually  became  more  and  more 
distinct  than  it  had  been. 

Licinius,  however,  roused   the  spirit  of  the   Roman 

people  :    and  although   his  favorite  law  was,   perhaps, 
12* 


146 

rather  injurious  to  the  popular  party  ;  yet  the  admis- 
sion of  plebeians  into  the  consulship  (in  389)  was  at 
once  expedient,  equitable,  and  necessary. 

From  this  sera,  the  tribuneship  became  decidedly  ben- 
eficial to  the  State.  Although  this  office  was  gradually 
losing  much  of  its  original  and  democratic  character, 
still  the  great  plebeian  magistrates  yet  retained  suffi- 
cient regard  for  the  people,  to  serve  as  a  kind  of  bar- 
rier against  the  attempts  made  upon  popular  rights  by 
the  aristocracy,  during  the  period  under  review. — All 
party  animosities  were,  however,  for  a  time,  almost 
entirely  suppressed,  when  the  dread  of  the  Carthagin- 
ian arms  awed  all  the  members  of  the  State  into  union  ; 
just  as  by  tight  bandages  the  dislocated  limbs  of  the  hu- 
man frame  are  all  kept  in  their  proper  places  ;  where- 
as, if  the  pressure  were  removed,  the  full  force  of  the 
disease  would  probably  at  once  make  its  appearance. 

The  aristocracy  were  not  very  much  inclined  to  en- 
croach ;  nor  are  the  tribunes  generally  chargeable  with 
any  thing  more  than  a  proper  degree  of  vigilance  for 
the  interests  of  their  order.  Towards  the  end  of  this 
period,  however,  the  tribunes  began  to  display  that  spir- 
it which  so  soon  afterwards  broke  out  with  a  violence 
which  injured  the  commonwealth,  but  consumed  the  in- 
cendiaries who  had  brandished  the  torch  of  faction. 

The  state  of  parties,  as  it  affected  the  nature  and  ex- 
lent  of  tribunicial  power,  is  not  here  referred  to ;  be- 
cause the  subject  has  been  treated  at  length  in  Chap- 
ters IV.  and  V.  of  the  present  essay. 

In  the  third  period,  at  which  we  are  now  arrived  ; — 
a  period   reaching  frOm   619  to  70.3, — the  tribuneship 


147 

appears  to  have  been  a  source  of  unmitigated  evils.  In- 
solence, want  of  subordination,  and  all  the  evils  pecu- 
liarl_y  marking  the  whole  of  this  period,  were  now  fos- 
tered and  cherished  by  the  tribunicial  power.  If  any 
unprincipled  or  ambitious  man  wished  to  accomplish  a 
scheme  of  villany,  to  excite  a  tumult,  to  undermine  the 
constitution,  to  attain  exorbitant  power  or  illegal  influ- 
ence, he  had  immediate  recourse  to  the  assistance  of 
some  depraved  tribune  ;  who,  trusting  to  the  protection 
his  sacrosanct  office  afforded  him,  soon  blew  the  dying 
embers  of  sedition  into  a  bright  i3ame. 

Sylla  at  length  demolished  the  exorbitant  power  ;  or, 
more  properly  speaking,  perhaps,  placed  boundaries  to 
the  unlimited  pretensions  of  the  great  plebeian  nsagis- 
tracy.  Every  measure  taken  by  this  extraordinary  man, 
displays  a  mind  possessed  of  the  acutest  penetration, 
and  of  almost  intuitive  discernment  ;  while  his  proced- 
ures frequently  bespeak  a  heart  which,  had  it  been  left 
unvitiated  by  the  intoxicating  poison  of  criminal  ambi- 
tion, would  have  been  susceptible  of  the  noblest  feelings 
that  can  animate  the  human  breast.  As  different  from 
his  opponent,  Marius,  as  any  one  human  being  of  extra- 
ordinary talents  can  be  dissimilar  from  another;  of  rare 
mental  endowments  ;  Sylla  seemed  to  live  in  a  region 
higher  than  that  which  is  inhabited  by  the  mere  ordina- 
ry soldier  or  politician.  Above  the  common  pursuits  of 
men,  and  despising  the  universal  idols  of  mankind,  he 
seemed  to  snatch  the  most  brilliant  honors,  and  to  as- 
cend the  highest  pinnacle  of  glory,  only  that  he  might 
show  the  world  his  contempt  of  its  most  flattering  dis- 
tinctions ;    without  leaving  room  for  the  shadow   of  a 


148 

suspicion,  that  his  sentiments  were  the  expression  of 
conscious  and  mortitied  wealvness  ;  or  his  philosophy'  the 
apparent  calmness  of  blasted  hope,  the  affected  mag-na- 
nimity  of  disappointed  ambition.  Although  the  degrada- 
tion to  which  he  subjected  the  tribuneship  was  an  al- 
most necessary  consequence  of  the  character  borne  by 
Sylla,  as  the  professed  leader  of  the  aristocratic  party; 
yet  1  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  this,  like  many  other 
measures  of  his  internal  administration,  was  eminently 
calculated  to  fix  the  still  undefined  constitution,  and  to 
confirnj  the  general  liberty  and  happiness  of  the  Roman 
people  ;  had  not  the  depravation  of  that  people  ren- 
dered them  wholly  incapable  of  enjoying  either  the  one 
or  the  other. 

But  no  laws  could  now  stem  the  torrent  of  private 
immorality  and  public  ciime.  The  powers  of  the  tri- 
buneship, extensive  as  in  theory  they  continued  to  be, 
were  in  fact  subservient  to  the  will  of  every  master  of 
public  opinion  or  of  military  force.  Illegal  measures 
were  thus  covered  with  the  semi-transparent  veil  of 
pretended  constitutional  authority.  By  these  means, 
their  deformities  were  concealed  ;  and,  while  penetra- 
ting minds  saw  through  so  imperfect  a  covering,  the 
populace  were  as  completely  deceived  by  the  trick,  as 
were  the  Homeric  and  Virgilian  heroes  by  those  shad- 
owy images  of  their  loaders,  that  were  thrown  in  among 
them  by  deities,  who  were  interested  in  the  event  of 
the  contest. 

The  result  of  the  preceding  statements  seems  to 
amount  to  this, — that,  from  the  year  260,  to  the  year 
319,  the  exercise  of  tribunicial  power  was,  upon  the 


149 

whole,  beneficial  to  the  state.  II.  That  dunng  the 
greater  part  of  our  second  period — viz.  from  the  year 
34y  to  Bid — such  was  the  situation  of  aff\urs,  and  such 
the  conduct  of  the  tribunes,  that  the  office  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  in  the  highest  degree  a  national  blessing  ; 
although,  unfortunately,  toward  the  end  of  this  period, 
there  was  displayed  a  little  of  that  factious  spirit,  which 
characterized  the  times  immediately  succeeding  ;  and 
which,  burst  out,  with  intolerable  fury,  in  619,  where 
our  third  period  commences.  ill.  That  from  the  year 
619,  to  the  year  703,  the  tribunicial  office  became,  like 
every  other  office,  a  tool  of  ambition,  and  an  instrument, 
by  means  of  which  the  most  corrupt  designs  were  car- 
ried into  execution  5  while,  from  the  ancient  populari- 
ty of  its  authority,  it  served  as  a  mask  for  the  most  un- 
popular designs. 

And  now  1  feel  inclined  to  give  way  for  a  moment  to 
the  expression  of  a  sentiment,  which,  in  the  course  of  a 
dry,  and  1  hope,  patient  investigation,  I  found  it  neces- 
sary to  repress.  And  after  contemplating  the  clumsy 
provisions  for  general  liberty  which  were  made  by  the 
heroes  and  sages  of  antiquity,  I  must  be  allowed  to  turn, 
with  admiring  and  almost  rapturous  veneration,  to  the 
constitution  of  our  country. 

LOXG    MAY    THAT     COiNSTH  LTION     FLOURISH   !      but    if    hCF 

doom  be  written  in  the  book  of  fate  ; — if,  in  the  revolu- 
tions of  ages,  she  be  destined  to  sink  ;  if  we  must  anti- 
cipate the  period  when  some  indignant  patriot,  or  some 
weeping  philanthropist,  shall  have  to  exclaim  over  her 
mouldered  remains,  "•  Troja  fuit  ;"  if  it  be  reserved 
for  her  to  expire,  except  in  the  last  great  conflagration. 


150 

when  unnumbered  systems  will  he  enveloped  in  the 
flames  of  a  dying  universe  ;  we  have  our  consolation. 
Other  countries  have  copied  after  this  bright  original  ; 
and,  even  her  decline  will  be  like  the  setting  of  a  sum- 
mer evening  sun,  which,  after  having  given  heat,  light 
and  life,  to  our  globe,  throws  around  him,  even  when 
he  is  sinking  beneath  the  horizon,  a  splendid  flood  of 
chastened,  softened,  and  widely  diffused  brilliancy  ! 

And  if  no  other  end  be  answered  by  the  investigation 
of  Rome's  legal  and  constitutional  history,  the  labour  of 
the  search  will  not  be  fruitless,  if  it  induce  us  to  turn 
with  more  delighted  admiration,  from  the  discordant 
elements  of  the  Iloman  constitution,  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  British  liberty  ;  in  the  composition  of  which, 
every  hue,  so  to  speak,  softly  melts  into  the  other  ; 
while  the  whole  produces  the  brilliant  yet  harmonious 
effect  of  rainbow-tints; 

"  Yet  fades  not  half  so  swift  away  ;" 

and,  like  the  rainbow,  our  constitution  shooting  across 
the  thunder-cloud  of  war,  has  thrown  some  brilliance 
over  the  darkest  scenes,  has  excited  the  admiration  of 
foreign  nations,  and  will  prove,  I  hope,  to  have  been 
an  omen  of  universal  felicity,  and  the  forerunner  of  a 
brighter  day,  when  the  spirit  of  genuine  liberty  shall 
no  longer  be  conjined  within  the  shores  of  our  Island  ; 
but  when  all  nations  shall  participate  in  the  equal  en- 
joyment of  the  invaluable  privileges  which  it  is  her's  to 
bestow  ! 


151 


HIS    RETURN    TO    COLLEGE    IN    1819. 

On  his  return  to  College,  in  October,  1819,  in  addition 
to  his  attendance  at  the  Humanity  and  Greek  classes, 
he  entered  under  the  venerable  and  excellent  professor 
of  Logic,  Jardine  ;  of  whose  character,  taken  as  a  whole, 
his  admiration  was  unbounded  ;  and  to  whom  he  never 
relerred,  but  in  terms  of  affectionate  respect.  As  he 
was  still  so  3'outhful,  I  had  said  to  him  more  than  once, 
"  My  dear,  had  you  not  better  enter  into  the  young  side  ?* 
You  may  get  the  first  prize  among  them  ;  but  in  the  old 
side,  where  the  competition  will  be  with  men  from  two 
to  ten  years  older  than  yourself,  you  would,  I  imagine, 
stand  no  chance,"'  "  PU  try,  father,"  was  his  only  re- 
ply. He  did  try  with  success  ;  for  he  carried  away  the 
first  prize  in  the  whole  class. 

Letters,  written  in  a  hurried  manner,  with  all  the 
confidence  of  a  child,  who  knew  that  every  line,  and  al- 
most every  word,  would  aflford  pleasure  to  a  widowed 
father  and  an  afflicted  aunt,  can  possess  but  little  inter- 
est for  others,  especially  for  strangers.     Being,  howev- 

*  Most,  if  not  all,  of  tUe  literary  and  philosophical  classes  at 
Glasgow,  are  divided  into  young  and  old  sides  ;  to  each  of  which, 
prizes  are  allotted.  This  is  done,  I  believe,  partly  as  an  encour- 
agement to  the  younger,  who  could  stiind  no  fair  chance  in  com- 
petition with  persons  many  years  older  than  tliemsflves  ;  and, 
partly,  that  the  professors  may  address  to  each  division  of  the 
class,  Lectures  or  Illustrations  suited  to  their  respective  capaci- 
ities.     This  is  the  case,  at  least,  in  the  niathematical  department. 


152 

er,  undisguised  effusions  of  the  heart,  they  may  afford 
an  indication  of  character  much  more  clearly  than  any 
other  species  of  composition.  Under  this  impression, 
some  extracts  are  made  from  his  correspondence  during 
his  second  session  at  College.  It  would  be  equally  un- 
natural and  in  vain  to  look  at  these  for  tine  writing, 
elaborate  disquisition,  or  for  any  thing  much  beyond  the 
chit-chat  of  a  fire  side  :  and,  indeed,  the  reader  will 
here  find  an  exact  picture  of  the  dear  youth  in  his  ordi- 
nary intercourse  with  the  family.  His  vivacity — ever 
accompanied  l»y  the  strictest  regard  to  christian  sober- 
nc^?, — and  his  occasional  displays  of  wit,  which  gleamed, 
but  never  wounded, — kept  us  always  cheerful. 

As  his  letters — generally  written  during  the  inter- 
vals of  College  exercises,  or  domestic  engagements  ; 
containing  whatever  suggested  itself  to  his  mind  at  these 
fragments  and  moments  of  time  ;  and  often  entering  into 
fiimily  affairs,  or  the  news  of  Poole  and  its  neighbour- 
hood ; — present  little  continuity  of  thought ; — I  am  obli- 
ged to  give  only  mutilated  extracts:  but  these  will  suf- 
ficiently show  the  general  state  of  his  feelings  and  the 
course  of  his  pursuits.  They  were,  as  in  the  former 
year,  written  equally  to  his  father  and  his  aunt. 

November  15,  1819. 

My  dear  Father  and  Aunt, 

I  am  once  more  writing  to  you  from  my  own  cham- 
ber— over  my  own  desk — and,  to  complete  mj'  assur- 
ance of  the  full  identity  of  the  place,  with  the  Misses 
W.  strumming,  in  the  next  room,  to  the  no  small  delight. 


153 

f  presume,  of  musical  ears.  My  reception  here  has 
been  pecuUarly  kind  on  every  hand.  Mr.  Professor 
Walker  welcomed  me  in  a  manner  particularly  gratify- 
ing. I  met  him  on  Monday  last  at  the  College  chapel 
door.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Durant !''  said  he,  "  I  have  been  long- 
ing to  see  you.  You  are  a  Logician,  this  year,  I  pre- 
sume ?"  '  Yes,  Sir.'  "  Well,  Sir,  I  can  only  say,  I  am 
sorry  to  lose  you."  1  don't  repeat  this  out  of  vanity  ; 
but  because  1  think  it  shows  the  Professor's  kindness; 
and  because  I  think  also  you  will  be  pleased  with  it. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wardlaw  are  all  that  is  kind  and  oblig- 
ing. As  for  Mr.  Jardine — Mr.  H.  is  enamoured  with 
him.  1  am  very  much  pleased  with  him  :  and,  although 
the  professor's  statements  have,  on  two  or  three  points 
already,  clashed  with  my  own  opinions  ;  and  although 
his  philosophy  and  his  reasonings,  where  they  are  orig- 
inal, have  now  and  then  appeared  to  me  a  little  doubt- 
ful ;  yet,  where  acknowledged  truths  are  to  be  com- 
municated, impressed,  or  explnined,  I  cannot  but  admire 
his  manly,  plain,  unadorned,  familiar  statements  ;  by 
which  he  leads  you  on,  as  it  were,  to  tlie  acquisition  of 
truth  ; — and  brings  3'ou  into  the  temple  of  knowledge 
by  such  a  gradual  and  easy  ascent,  that  you  have  enter- 
ed (he  edifice  before  you  know  3'ou  have  mounted  the 
long  and  tiresome  flight  of  steps  which  you  had  before 
seen  leadinsr  to  the  vestibule. 

I  am  sorry  that  Mr. does  not  acknowledge  the 

justice  of  Mr.  B ,  in  severely  correcting   that  F-'atre 

fosdo  Jilius  fcedior — that  filthy  bantling,  who  has  sudden- 
ly emerged  from  a  putrefying  mass,  the  scum  of  Lord 
Byron's  brain  ;  and  is  now  running  over  the  land  a  mor- 
13 


154 

al  radical,  wishing-  to  throw  o/T  every  restraint,  except 
the  bonds  of  iniquity  ;  and  dellling  all  he  touches,  with 
the  gall  of  his  bitterness,  and  the  stains  of  his  infectious 
corruption.     His  lordship  is  indeed  a  great — almost  the 
greatest— poetical  magician.     Magicians  of  old,  howev- 
er, after  bartering   the  ultimate  reversion  of  both  soul 
and    body  to  the  arch-tiend,  were    content,  in  the  inter- 
mediate time,  to  pay  him   tithes, — more  as  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  superiority  than  any  thing  else.     The  pres- 
ent dealer  in  the  black  art,  not  content  with  so  limited 
a  surrender,  devotes  all   he  has   to  the   mighty  master, 
whose  servant  he  appears  to  be,  not  by  profession  only, 
but  by  perpetual  practice,  and  unceasing  diligence.     In 
a  word,  he   gives  the  devil  just  the  fee  simple   of  him- 
self, and  all  that  belongs  to  himself. 


Dec.  28,  1819. 

Your  letters  are  possessed  of  all  the  kindness  and 
liberality  which  your  characters  ever  gave  me  to  ex- 
pect. With  an  high  share  of  health,  and  a  perpetual 
flow  of  spirits,  and  every  thing,  in  tact,  to  be  thankful 
for,  I  have  yet  a  sort  of  susceptibility, — distinct,  I  hope, 
from  morbid  sensibility, — which  has  produced  an  appar- 
ent reserve  on  the  subject  of  my  future  profession  : — 
not  because  I  felt  the  most  momentary  distrust  in  your 
kindness,  or  the  slightest,  the  most  evanescent  shade 
of  suspicion  as  to  your  constant  disposition  to  do  me 
good  ;  but  because  1  have  ever  felt  it  painful  to  talk  on 
a  subject  of  immense   importance,   on  every   point  of 


155 

which  my  mind  ha?  been  wnvering  and  toiling,  without 
ever  attaining-  any  ultimate  decision,  except  that  1  would, 
in  whatever  direction  my  labours  miirht  be  determined, 
take  care  that  what  industry  can  gain,  siiall  not  reraaiu 
unattained. 

I  certainly  prefer  a  learned  profession,  as  most  con- 
genial to  my  habits  of  thinking  and  acting ;  yet  I  leave 
the  decision  with  prudence  and  with  you.  The  proba- 
bility of  my  success  I  am  unable  to  estimate.  I  suppose 
my  abilities  reach  the  common  standard  of  men  in  the 
learned  professions.  I  should,  I  hope,  have  plenty  of 
industry,  and  might,  perhaps,  get  useful,  though  I  should 
never  desire  splendid,  friends.  In  the  mean  time,  my 
indecision  will  not  affect  my  industry  ;  because  I  am  sure 
that  intellectual  habits  must  be  useful  to  me  in  every 
situation.  I  hope  that  1  shall  not,  in  any  situation,  lose 
sight  of  usefulness  and  religious  duty  :  there  is  I  know 
and  feel,  great  danger  of  this.  I  hope,  however,  that  I 
shall  be  preserved  from  the  snare.  *  *  * 

Dr.  Chalmers  thinks  that  the  late  measures  of  gov- 
ernment "  are  spreading  a  canopy  of  wholesome  sever- 
ity over  the  moralizing  processes  that  are  going  on  in 
the  nation,  and  which,  if  not  interrupted,  will  land  us  in 
a  purer  and  better  generation  !"  In  a  work  now  pub- 
lishing, he  speaks  of  "  popularity  as  that  which,  with 
all  its  adjuncts  of  crowd,  and  pressure,  and  animal  heat, 
with  its  head  among  the  storms,  and  its  feet  in  the  quick- 
sands, has  nothing  to  compensate  its  numerous  incon- 
veniences, but  the  Hosannahs  of  a  drivelling  genera- 
tion !" 


156 


January  16,  1820. 

Your  accounts  of  snow  and  cold  quite  surprise  me 
in  these  milder  climates,  where  the  only  inconvenience 
— if  inconvenience  it  be — arising  from  the  cold,  has 
been,  the  necessity  of  acquiring  the  important  habit  of 
walking,  running,  sliding,  or  falling  on  streets — and  hilly 
ones,  too — glazed  like  a  looking-glass,  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  or  from  top  to  bottom. 

*  *  *  There  are  some  men  so  preposterously  wicked, 
that,  as  (in  Ivanhoe)  Whamba  says,  "I  would  laugh  but 
that  1  find  1  am  weeping." — By  the  bye,  Ivanhoe  ! — it 
is,  indeed,  refreshing  to  turn  from  the  wrongs  of  bleed- 
ing humanity,  from  the  loathsomeness  of  *  *  *,  and  the 
filth  of  Cloacine  courts,  to  the  wonderful  monuments  of 
that  m  ghty  genius — that  better,  that  purer  Shakspeare. 
Whj',  I  do  believe  that  this  novel  of  his  will  do  more  to 
promote  a  kindly  and  sympathising  affection  towards 
that  unhappy  people,*  than  could  vrell  have  been  excit- 
ed by  a  thousand  appeals  to  the  public  from  the  Jews' 
society  !  Now  remark,  I  look  for  no  immediate  effect 
from  the  representations  of  fiction — but  such  gigantic 
works  of  genius  must  be  great  moral  machines,  and  pos- 
sess a  tremendously  deteriorating,  or  a  considerably 
ameliorating  efficacy.  Now,  in  the  present  instance,  I 
really  conceive  that  the  sort  offcelivg  produced  towards 
the  Jews,  is  by  no  means  unimportant,  and  as  a  sort  of 
preparatory  step — a  clearing  away  of  prejudice — and 
tending  to  give  a  just  view  of  the   horrible  oppression 

*  The  Jews. 


157 

under  which  they  have   laboured. To  the  spirited 

rhapsody  above,  1  put  an  end  last  nig-ht,  by  a  coup  de 
grace — ^just  such  as  may  be  considered  characteristic  of 
your  correspondent's  genius— in  a  word — snuffing  out 
the  candle,  when  my  wisdom  intended  to  have  brighten- 
ed the  flame  of  that  luminary,  by  means  of  a  prudent 
and  well-timed  amputation  of  its  excrescence. 


February,  1820. 

Your  letter  contains  an  unusual  list  of  mortality. 
This  world  reminds  one  more  and  more  of  a  vast  field, 
of  battle,  where  every  part  of  the  ranks  is  exposed  to  a 
galling  fire.  If  we  move  from  an  old  station  to  a  new 
one,  nothing  is  more  striking,  when  we  return  to  our 
former  position,  than  the  vacancies  occasioned  in  the 
ranks  since  our  departure.  Every  day  forces  home  the 
truth,  that  "  there  is  no  discharge  in  that  war;"  and 
should  induce  us  all  more  ardently  to  desire  that  "  bet- 
ter country,"  which  is  adorned  with  never-fading  bloom, 
and  "  where  glittering  robes  for  conquerors  wait." 
Among  those  who  have  conquered  through  Him  who 
hath  loved  them,  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
good  old  Miss  T —  is  now  enjoying  "  the  pleasures  for- 
evermore  :"  and  it  is,  indeed,  consolatory  to  reflect  on 
the  fact,  that  when  the  '•  earthly  tabernacle"  of  chris- 
tian friends  is  destroyed,  the  brilliance  of  eternity,  and 
the  magnificence  of  their  "  Father's  mansions,"  burst 
at  once  on  the  astonished  and  delighted  view  of  their 
disembodied  spirits. 

13* 


15 


o 


March,  1820. 

On  Monday  Dr.  VVardlavv  was  not  in  to  dinner. 
"  Has  there  been  a  letter  for  me,  Ma'am  ?"  was  my  first 
inquiry.     "  No"  was  the  sorrowful  answer;  "nor  has 
the  Dr.  been   to  the  warehouse  to-day  ;  but  had  there 
been  a  letter,  they  would,  I   think,  have  sent   it  up."" — 
Should   I  now  go  to  the  warehouse  ?     It  was  after  din- 
ner;  and  after  dinner  is,  with  us,  pretty  late  in  the  eve- 
ning'.    I  bad  a  slight  sore  throat — I  was  excessively  tir- 
ed with  walking  and  talking  in  the  fore  part  of  the  day  j 
— and  I  therefore  determined  to  await  the  Dr.'s  return, 
and  the  possibility  of  his  having  a  letter.     This  deter- 
mination did   tolerably  well,  while  I  remained  with  the 
family;  but  when  1  retired   to  my  own   apartment,  and 
thought  of  my  aunfs  head  ache  when  you  had  last  writ- 
ten, 1   gradually  mounted  into  all   the  mighty  sublimity 
of  a  true  Durantine  fume  and   fuss.     You  know,  when 
at  home,  in  the  same  elevation,  1  gratify  the  household, 
by  slamming  the  door  of  my  study — lying  on  the  sofa — 
twirling  the  chairs  in  the   parlour — and  launching  forth 
occasional   tirades  against  every  thing   which,  as  1  con- 
ceive, may  have  contributed  to  my  vexation. 

//ere,  however,  politeness,  of  course,  stops  such  out- 
lets for  my  uneasiness.  I  therefore  spread  the  blacken- 
ed, blotted  sheet  of  paper  before  me — took  my  pen — 
and  determined  to  go  on  in  proving  (such  is  our  present 
exercise)  that,  "  Firtus  est  sola  nobilitas.''''  I  thought, 
however,  it  would  be  much  more  noble  just  then  to  get 
my  letter,  and  so   I   could  not  write   three  sentences. 


159 

''  So  said  I  to  myself" — IHl  lay  down  my  pen  and  think. 
Lay  down  my  pen  I  did  ;  but  I  had  marvellously  tired 
myself  in  the  morning;  and   my   meditations  gradually 

became  those  of  the  great  Mr.  B .     Messenger  after 

messenger  at  length  came  from  the  tea-table,  but  m}' 
ears  remained  unaffected,  till  J.  VV.  burst  into  my  room, 
calling  out,  "  Tea's  ready,  tea's  ready  !"  I  rose,  and 
made  my  entree^  amid  "  peals  of  laughter  loud  and  long," 
rubbing  my  eyes  ;  but  wholly  unconscious  of  having 
slept  for  an  hour,  and  denying  a  fact  of  which  I  really 
could  not  be  convinced,  till  I  compared  the  time  when 
my  meditation  commenced,  with  that  at  which  my  rev- 
erie was  interrupted.  Quurn  tandem  vix  factum  silentium 
est., — I,  more  fully  awakened,  asked  for  letters,  found 
Dr.  Wardlavv  had  one  for  me  ! — opened  it ! — saw  both 
hands — rread  assurances  of  peace  and  safety  ! — and  sat 
down  to  tea  with  more  than  usual  satisfaction  ;  and  I 
hope,  with  unfeigned  gratitude  to  Him,  from  whom 
"  cometh  every  good  and  perfect  gift." 

H wishes  me  to  accompany  him  to  France  next 

summer.  To  his  solicitations  I  have  returned  a  decid- 
ed negative.  His  invitation  is  kind,  but  it  has,  from  its 
urgency,  become  almost  troublesome.  Had  he  a  nicer 
tact  in  discerning  character,  he  would,  I  conceive,  know 
enough  of  me  to  be  aware  that  I  should  not  have  con- 
cealed my  dispositions,  if  they  had  been  favourable  to 
his  proposal ;  and  that  I  should  not  hitherto  have  re- 
mained unwavering,  if  my  decision  had  been  susceptible 
of  change.  I  should  not  have  said  this,  but  that  he  in- 
tends to  write  to  yuu  on  the  subject.  What  he  expects 
from  this,  it  is  beyond  my  power  to  divine.     If  he  fan- 


4 


160 

cies,  that  I  am  onl}'^  waiting  for  3'our  permission  to  ac- 
cept his  invitation,  I  am  sure  he  is  vastly  mistaken  in 
me;  and  if  he  anticipates  your  ordering  me  off,  without 
any  regard  to  my  own  inclinations,  I  presume  to  hope 
that  he  is  equally  mistaken  in  you !  The  journey  I 
should  esteem  little  short  of  absolute  criminalitj".  My 
vacation  time  is  most  precious, — and  should,  and  I  hope, 
■will,  be  preserved  most  inviolate.  The  terms  of  thanks, 
in  which  politeness,  and  a  sense  of  real  kindness  have 
induced  me  to  decline  our  friend's  proposal,  have  prob- 
ably led  him  to  suspect  me  of  indecision.  If  it  be  so,  I 
do  not  know  myself;  or  this  is  another  grievous  mis- 
take in  the  estimate  he  must  have  termed  of  my  char- 
acter. 

I  look  forward  to  my  return,  with  feelings  of  warm 
anticipation.  1  wished  for  home  last  session  ;  but  not,  I 
think,  with  the  same  ardency  as  now.  I  expect  the 
highest  pleasure  from  the  first  view  of  Old  England.  I 
hope,  indeed,  that  I  am  aware  how  completely  every 
prospective  enjoyment  is  in  the  hand  of  a  superior  pow- 
er, who  can  blast,  if  he  please, — and,  if  he  please,  can 
make  its  charms  burst  forth  in  unclouded  and  unlooked- 
for  brilliancy. 


May  1,  1820. 

I  AM  just  now  returned  from  the  Hall, 
which  kept  me  till  about  one  o'clock.  As  for  my  suc- 
cess, you  will  learn,  from  the  Glasgow  paper,  that  I 
stand  again  at  the  head  of  my  class — that  my  vacation 


161 

essay  on  the  tribunicial,  &;c.  has  been  successful — and 
that,  in  a  word,  ray  hopes  have  been  realized,  and  my 
expectations  surpassed.  To  affect  total  indifference  to 
these  thing?,  would  arg-ue  a  miserable  mixture  of  stupid 
arrogance,  and  base  dissimulation  :  but  most  truly  can  1 
say,  that  my  chief  pleasure  arises,  not  from  any  tempo- 
rary applause  which  I  may  gain  ;  but  fi'ora  the  hope 
that  these  marks  of  academical  approbation  will  con- 
vince you,  that  trouble  and  expense  have  not  been  en- 
tirely thrown  away  on  me  ;  that  I  do  not  shrink  from 
the  efforts  necessary  to  gain  knowledge  ;  and  that  I  am 
not  last  in  the  ranks  of  vigorous,  and,  1  hope,  virtuous, 
competition. 

I  assure  you,  I  now  long  to  be  in  London.  All  that 
intervenes  I  wish  out  of  the  way  ;  and  although  I  have 
spent  on  the  whole  a  pleasant  winter  with  every  mark 
of  affectionate  attention  from  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Wardlaw, 
with  not  a  few  agreeable  College  companions,  and  with 
a  fair  share  of  general  success  ;  yet  I  must  needs  ac- 
knowledge, that  absence  has  not  diminished  mv  lon^ina- 
after  the  south,  and  my  love  of  those  whom  1  hope  to 
meet  there. 


I 


162 


During  this  session,  he  wrote  several  essays,  prescrib- 
e<]  by  the  professor,  and  some  voluntaries,  in  prose  and 
verse.  I  have  now  before  me  three  pieces  composed 
at  that  time.  One  is  of  considerable  size,  on  the  trite 
subject,  prescribed  by  Mr  Jardine,  "  virtus  est  sola  et 
UNTCA  NOBiuTAS ;  another  is  very  large,  entitled  "logic 
THEME,"  from  which  1  shall  extract  a  part  of  the  con- 
clusion ;  and  the  third,  is  a  "  descriptive  essay,"  in 
verse,  which  is  given  entire. 


LOGIC  THEME, 

After  giving  a  definition  of  the  term  Logic — a  state- 
ment of  the  precise  objects  of  the  science— and  an 
analysis  of  the  entire  system  of  Logic,  as  it  stood  be- 
fore Lord  Bacon's  J\"ovam  Organum,  or  as  it  has  stood 
even  since  in  works  of  estabUshed  reputation,  he  pro- 
ceeds thus ; — 

Such  is  a  very  imperfect  outline  of  a  system  which 
once  ruled  the  whole  literary  world  with  an  iron  scep- 
tre— of  a  system  v\bich  deserved  to  be  revered,  but 
which  was,  unfortiitiately,  idolized  ; — which  merited 
influencej  and  authority,  but  which  possessed  so  despotic 
a  power  over  mankind,  that  the  progress  of  knowledge 
was  interrupted  ;  the  exertions  of  intellect  drawn  away 
from  their  pro])er  objects  ;  and  the  bold  llights  of  im- 


agination  restrained  by  the  influence  of  that  mag-ic  cir- 
cle, nhich  had  been  drawn  by  false  philosophy,  and  in- 
veterate prejudices. 

After  having'  thus  given  an  outline  of  the  ancient  lo- 
gic, it  remains  that  we  attend  to  its  history,  and  trace  it 
from  its  origin  in  the  scattered  precepts  of  a  compara- 
tively unphilosophical  age,  through  all  the  intermediate 
stages  of  its  progress,  down  to  its  present  state  of  de- 
cayed grandeur,  of  neglected  and  mouldering  magnifi- 
cence. 

The  history  of  logic  may  be,  accordingly,  consider- 
ed under  three  divisions  : — I.  Logic,  before  the  time  of 
Aristotle; — II.  Logic,  from  the  time  of  Aristotle,  till  the 
revival  of  literature  ; — III.  Logic,  from  the  revival  of 
literature,  till  the  present  hour.  To  these  divisions  I 
hope  strictly  to  adhere,  although  I  do  not  intend  formal- 
ly to  mark  them. 

Men  reason  before  rules  of  reasoning  are  promulga- 
ted ;  and  use  the  syllogism  before  they  are  acquainted 
with  its  name.  Tiie  wise,  however,  have  always  been 
disposed  to  form  rules  tor  men  of  inferior  abilities,  and 
the  world  at  large  has  been  sensible  of  the  advantages 
which  arise  from  listening  to  the  directions  of  those, 
whom  their  natural  talents  and  their  acquired  endow- 
ments have  raised  above  the  ordinar}^  level.  No  soon- 
er does  any  operation  become  of  importance,  than  rules 
are  collected  for  the  guidance  of  those  who  perform  it : 
the  village  matron,  even,  has  her  prudential  maxims  for 
the  conduct  of  life,  or  the  management  of  her  house- 
hold— the  farmer  has  his  proverbs  about  the  weather, 
the  soil,  and  the  productions  of  the  earth — and  we  might 


164 

be  sure  that,  when  philosophical  truth  became  an  object 
of  some  importance,  inquirers  would  not  be  long  with- 
out precepts  to  guide  them  in  the  way  which  leads  to 
the  attainment  of  that  object. 

The  facts  of  history  agree  with  the  expectations  we 
had  formed  ;  and  we  find,  that  when  man  began  to  in- 
vestigate and  to  reason,  rules  to  direct  him  in  these  pro- 
cesses began  also  to  make  their  appearance. 

About  the  fortieth  Ol^'mpiad,  seven  eminently  wise 
men  arose  in  Greece.  The  simultaneous  appearance 
of  these  great  men  is  partly  attributable  to  the  state  of 
the  age  and  to  the  honors  and  rewards  which  now  be- 
gan to  attend  literary  merit  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  age  was  rendered  illustrious,  the  progress  of  im- 
provement facilitated,  and  general  intellectual  cultiva- 
tion carried  forward  with  greater  ardor  and  success,  in 
consequence  of  the  knowledge  obtained  by  these  distin- 
guished persons,  and  by  them  communicated  to  others. 

Rules  of  logic  v\ere  now  beginning  to  be  promulgated. 
There  was  no  art,  no  regular  system  ;  but  there  were  a 
number  of  nnarranged  precepts,  invented,  or  rather 
discovered,  by  different  men,  in  different  places,  at  dif- 
ferent times,  and  while  pursuing  different  trains  of  in- 
quiry. These  rules,  however,  as  was  natural  in  the 
infant  state  of  the  science,  referred  to  the  first  part  of 
logic,  and  were  constructed  with  the  sole  purpose  of 
enabling  men  to  form  clear,  and  distinct  ideas,  by  means 
of  definition,  division,  classification,  &;c.  In  process  of 
time,  however,  an  art  of  debate  was  invented  by  Zeno, 
This  was  called  the  dialectic  art,  because  the  discussion 
was  kept  up  by  means  of  a  dialogue.      Zeno  seems  to 


165 

have  imagined  that  disputation  had  victory,  rather  than 
truth,  for  its  object.  It  appears,  however,  not  improb- 
able, that  this  philosopher  has  been  charged  with  sins 
which  are  rather  imputable  to  those  who  seized  the 
weapons  he  had  fabricated  ;  and  made  such  use  of  them 
as  the  first  inventor  would  never  have  sanctioned  with 
his  approbation.  However  this  may  have  been,  the 
lamentable  effect  is  certain.  What  should  have  been 
an  art  of  reasoning,  degenerated  into  a  system  of  ma- 
noeuvres, with  victory  alone  for  their  object  ;  while 
TRUTH  was  concealed  by  the  quibbles  of  innumerable 
sophists,  whose  real,  and,  not  unfrequently,  whose  pro- 
fessed, design  it  was  to  obscure  her  radiance. 

At  length,  Socrates  arose — he  saw  the  bad  moral,  as 
"well  as  the  miserable  intellectual,  effects  of  the  plan 
which  the  sophists  were  pursuing — and,  adding  to  the 
force  of  truth  the  power  of  his  own  mighty  genius — he 
effectually  opposed,  with  their  own  weapons,  those  who, 
indifferent  to  the  nature  of  their  cause,  reasoned  only 
that  they  might  gain  a  little  eclat,  or  a  little  profit.  The 
dialectic  art,  in  the  hinds  of  Socrates,  was  no  longer  a 
vain  instrument  of  frivolous  disputation.  He  made  use 
of  it  to  elucidate  points  of  morality — to  discover  truth — 
to  refute  falsehood — to  convince  obstinacy — to  humble 
pride — to  detect  sophistry — to  trace  the  path  of  duty, 
and  to  expose  the  deviations  of  error.  But  this  great 
philosopher  fell  a  sacrifice  to  his  noble  exertions — and 
of  him  may  it,  with  peculiar  emphasis,  be  said,  that  he 
died  on  the  field  of  glory.  Those  who  disliked  his  po- 
litical connexions,  and  those  who  dreaded  the  effects  of 
his  philosophical  opinions,  alleged  against  him,  as  if  it 

14 


166 

had  been  a  crime,  the  purity  of  his  religious  sentiment!?. 
Those  vvlio  could  no  longer  argue,  were  able  to  con- 
demn ;  and  those  who  could  not  refute  the  reasoning 
advanced,  were  now  contented. — For  the}'  could  poison 
the  reasoner. 

We  have  already  observed,  that  the  rules  of  logic 
hitherto  established  referred  only  to  the  means  of  ac- 
quiring clear  and  distinct  notions.  Aristotle,  however, 
at  length  applied  himself  to  the  task,  and  introduced  the 
SYLLOGISM,  with  all  that  complicated  system  of  rules,  on 
which  it  depends.  Struck  with  admiration  at  the  cer- 
tainty of  mathematical  conclusions,  he  attempted  to  in- 
troduce equal  certainty  into  every  kind  of  reasoning. 
His  system  has  been  noticed  in  a  former  part  of  this  ex- 
ercise :  1  shall,  therefore,  say  nothing  about  it  here  ; 
but  merely  attend  to  a  few  circumstances  connected  with 
the  publication,  or  rather  with  the  preservation  of  the 
Aristotelian  MSS. 

The  Aristotelian  MSS.  transmitted  by  Theophrastus 
(into  whose  hands  they  fell  immediately  after  the  death 
of  the  illustrious  author)  to  his  heir  Nileus,  were  plac- 
ed in  a  cellar  at  Ssepsis,  to  conceal  them  from  the  king 
of  Pergamus,  who  was  then  collecting  a  library.  In 
this  cellar,  they  remained  for  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  At  length,  these  precious  MSS.  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  peripatetic,  and  were  conveyed  to  Athens, 
where  the  injuries  done  them  by  the  damps  of  their 
temporary  tomb,  were  remedied,  or,  perhaps,  aggrava- 
ted, by  attempts  at  emendation  and  restoration.  When 
Athens  was  taken  by  the  dictator,  Sylla,  the  Aristotelian 
MSS.  were  carried  to  Rome.     No  attention  was  paid  to 


167 

Aristotle's  analytics  by  the  Greek  philosophers. — The 
public  mind  had  been  pre-occupied  by  the  sublime  and 
imaginative  doctrines  of  Plato  ;  so  that  Aristotle's  works 
were  kept,  comparatively,  out  of  view. 

These  works  were  unknown  for  so  long  a  period  af- 
ter the  death  of  their  author,  that  all  feelings  of  person- 
al attachment  must  have  been  swept  away  when  his 
work  at  length  appeared.  After  these  works  had  been 
removed  to  Rome,  the  same  indifference  continued  for 
some  time  to  prevail.  At  length,  however,  great  and 
increasing  attention  was  paid  to  the  works  of  Aristotle  ; 
— but  a  deluge  ot  barbarous  invaders  swept  from  the 
whole  Roman  empire  all  that  was  beautiful  in  art — no- 
ble in  science — or  brilliant  among  the  productions  of 
imagination. 

The  ages  of  darkness  followed.  And  to  the  harmo- 
ny of  social  order,  the  peace  of  civilized  life,  the  pro- 
tection of  wholesome  laws,  and  the  consequent  encour- 
agement of  the  calm  pursuits  of  literature — succeeded 
— the  jar  of  feudal  dissension,  the  wars  of  semi-barbar- 
ous tribes,  the  evils  of  unbounded  licence  and  unrestrain- 
ed rapacity,  and  the  consequent  destruction  of  literature, 
the  extinction  of  science,  and  the  banishaient  of  philos- 
ophy. 

From  about  the  sixth,  to  the  eleventh  century,  know- 
ledge seemed  extinguished.  The  little  learning  which 
then  existed,  was  confined  to  the  great  ecclesiastical 
establishments  of  the  d;iy  :  the  work^  of  classical  anti- 
quity were  forgotten  or  corrupted  ;  and  the  remains  of 
ancient  learning,  neglected  or  despised. 

We  are  not,  however,  to  suppose  that  even  the  dark 


168 

affes  were  destitute  of  men  who  devoted  their  time  t© 
study,  and  followed  the  pursuits  of  learning:  the  scho- 
lastic philosophy  grew  up  amid  the  darkness  of  the  age  : 
this  system  derived  its  name  from  the  circumstance  that 
it  was  taught  in  the  public  schools  then  annexed  to 
cathedral  and  monastic  establishments.  The  respect 
naturally  paid  to  Aristotle's  philosophy — proceeding 
from  a  land  where  the  human  mind  had  reached  the 
highest  pitch  of  cultivation,  and  the  universality  of  his 
genius,  which  rendered  his  works  a  library  of  them- 
selves, recommended  his  productions  to  general  atten- 
tion. The  scholastic  philosophers  had  habituated  them- 
selves to  dispute  on  subjects  at  once  abstruse  and  trifling. 
They,  therefore,  caught,  with  avidity,  at  Aristotle's  an- 
alytics— a  system  which,  by  the  niceness  of  its  distinc- 
tions, and  the  multiplicity  of  its  rules,  may  sometimes 
conceal  frivolity,  under  the  mask  of  profound  learning  ; 
and  hide  absurdity,  under  the  appearance  of  consum- 
mate wisdom. 

The  analytics,  therefore,  were  separated  from  the 
other  works  of  the  distinguished  author  :  and  instruc- 
tion in  them  formed  the  principal  branch  of  a  learned 
education.  No  inconsiderable  portion  of  this  success 
is,  perhap?,  attributable  to  the  conquests  achieved  by 
the  Saracens  in  Europe  :  the  conquest  of  Egypt  had  put 
them  in  possession  of  the  works  of  Aristotle,  and  these 
works  they  had  deeply  studied — so  that,  With  their  arms, 
they  introduced  their  arts — and,  among  the  rest,  logic, 
or  the  art  of  thinking,  into  this  part  of  the  world.  But 
other  causes  concurred  to  raise  to  its  highest  pitch  the 
Jiterary  madness.     About  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 


169 

century,  events  which  took  place  in  the  east,  threw  a 
new  flood  of  intellectual  light  over  the  European  conti- 
nent. About  the  same  time,  a  better  and  purer  light 
rose  upon  that  part  of  the  world  which  was  involved  in 
the  darkness  of  popery.  The  church  of  Rome,  thus  as- 
sailed, needed  defenders  ;  and  as  some  of  her  adversa- 
ries were  protected  from  the  torture  and  the  stake, 
which  she  inflicted  on  those  within  her  reach  ;  it  became 
necessary  to  provide  some  other  antidote,  to  stop  the  cir- 
culating poison  of  heretical  doctrine.  The  friends  of  the 
church  seized  the  weapons  of  logical  controversy,  in 
which  early  education  had  rendered  them  generally  ex- 
pert. Luther,  Calvin,  and  the  other  reformers,  saw 
that  the  intricacy  of  logic  stood  in  the  way  of  their  usual 
plain  statements,  and  simple  but  cogent  argument  ;  and 
they  consequently  indulged  in  frequent  invectives  against 
a  system,  which  they  considered  the  opponent  of  truth. 
But  the  church  was  determined  not  to  desert  the  lo- 
gicians— its  tried  friends  and  faithful  auxiliaries.  Aca- 
demical  honors  were,  therefore,  conferred  on  the  suc- 
cessful disputant ;  and  the  highest  place  assigned  him  in 
the  estimation  of  literary  men.  But  empty  honors  were 
not  the  only  rewards  set  before  the  aspiring  logician.  Ev- 
ery reward,  from  the  simple  benefice  to  the  mitre,  and 
from  the  mitre  to  the  triple  crown,  had  been  attained  ; 
and,  therefore,  was  attainable  by  skill  in  tlie  art  of  logic. 
The  interests  of  some  men,  the  passions  of  others,  and 
the  prejudices  of  almost  all,  tended  to  support  the  reign- 
ins:  delusion.  But  it  was  from  Lord  Bacon  that  the  an- 
cient  system  received  its  death-wound.       On   taking   a 

retrospective  view    of  science  and  philoso])hy,  he  was 
14* 


170 

grieved  to  observe  that,  although  much  genius  and  in- 
genuity had  been  displayed  in  the  frivolous  disputes  of 
the  schools,  yet  that  no  solid  object  had  ever  been  at- 
tained— no  useful  end  answered — no  wise  purpose  ef- 
fected— no  brilliant  discovery  made.  Not  satisfied,  how- 
ever, with  an  opinion  formed  on  a  hasty  survey,  he 
traced  the  history  of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  ;  marked 
their  present  state  of  advance  ;  and  ascertained  the 
point  at  which  their  progress  had  terminated.  He  found 
that  this  extensive  process  strengthened  him  in  his  pre- 
viously-received opinion  ;  and  he  perceived  that  the 
stunted  appearance  of  knowledge  at  that  period,  was  in 
a  great  measure  owing  to  the  exclusive  attention  paid 
to  the  syllogism. 

Lord  Bacon  now  boldly  asserted  that  the  ancient  logic 
was  not  fitted  for  the  discovery  of  truth.  Not  content, 
however,  with  destroying  the  old  edifice,  he  determined 
to  erect  a  new  and  nobler  structure.  He  perceived 
that  the  conclusion  of  the  syllogism  was  contained  in 
the  premises  ;  and,  as  a  consequence,  that  no  new  truth 
could  be  discovered  by  the  ancient  method  of  reason- 
ing. After  these  preparatory  steps,  he  presented  to 
the  consideration  of  mankind  his  new  instrument  of  in- 
vestigation. He  did  not  assume  the  merit  of  invention  or 
originality — he  professed,  that  his  sole  aim  was  to  bring 
mankind  back  to  the  natural  method  of  conducting  their 
inquiries.  This  great  philosopher  saw  that  the  follow- 
ers of  Aristotle,  in  attempting  to  use  the  syllogism  as 
an  instrument  of  discovery,  were  inverting  the  order  of 
things. 


171 

Lord  Bacon's  system,*  then,  is  founded  on  the  princi- 
ple,  that  we  must  proceed  from  particulars  up  to  gen- 

*  In  an  Essay,  written  the  next  year  while  in  the  Ethic  class, 
which  shows  a  considerable  innprovenjent  in  composition,  entitled, 
"  Causes  of  error  ;  as  enumerated  in  Lord  Bacon's  Aphor- 
isms, 78  and  93  inclusive,— J\''oimot  Organum,  Lib.  pri.''^  William 
says,  "  When  he  observed  (ha/  servile  admiration  for  antiquity  by 
which  past  ages  had  been  characterised — the  satisfaction  with 
which  men  in  general  were  likely  to  regard  a  progress,  which, 
however  inferior  to  what  might  have  been  effected,  was  yet  suf- 
ficient to  surprise  the  superficial— the  arts  of  those  who  had  been 
initiated  in  the  mysterious  learning  of  the  period — the  deadening 
influence  of  superstition — the  constitutions  of  old  and  prejudiced 
corporations,  who,  although  endowed  for  (he  purjiose  of  promot- 
ing the  interests  of  knowledge,  set  themselves  against  every  thing 
that  did  not  tally  with  their  pre-conceived,  and,  what  one  may 
term,  hereditary  notions— and,  above  all,  that  despair,  the  off- 
spring of  indolence,  and  the  nursling  of  pride,  by  which  all  that  a 
few  favourite  masters  had  left  enveloped  in  obscurity,  was  at  once 
pronounced  inscrutable — he  could  easily  account  for  the  fact 
which  attracted  his  attention,  and  excited  his  curiosity. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Lord  Bacon  wrote  ;  and 
those  very  writings,  the  origin  of  which  may  be  traced  to  this  sur- 
vey, accelerated  the  event  their  great  author  had  foreseen. 

Happily,  the  light  of  a  better  day  has  dawned  upon  us.  The 
old  system  of  dialectics  do  longer  retains  its  magical  influence 
over  the  minds  of  men.  Discoveries,  which  have  evinced  the  su- 
periority of  the  moderns,  have  destroyed  that  blind  veneration  for 
antiquity,  which  obstructed  the  progress  of  science.  SujicrsfitioD, 
inveterate  prejudice,  and  a  bigotted  attachment  to  intolerant 
creeds,  are  confined  to  a  few  old  richly  endowed  incorporations, 
within  which  they  can  ferment,  and  fester,  and  rankle,  without  in- 
fecting, with  a  kindred  gangrene,  the  body  of  the  political  and  lit- 
erary community." 


172 

erals  ;  so  that  when  we  observe,  in  many  individual 
substances,  properties  and  powers  common  to  ail  of 
them  ;  we  ascribe  the  properties  and  powers  to  the 
whole  class,  of  which  the  individuals  observed  form 
parts.  It  is,  indeed,  by  no  means  easy  to  determine  the 
point  at  which  our  experiments  should  cease,  and  when 
we  may  safely  sit  down,  contented  with  the  extent  of 
our  induction.  This  must,  however,  be  left  to  the  per- 
severance and  good  sense  of  the  individual. 

At  length,  the  eyes  of  mankind  began  to  be  opened  ; 
and  after  the  fever  of  admiration  had  a  little  subsided, 
some  bold  individuals  stepped  forward,  and  ventured  to 
attack  the  system.  Ramus,  a  philosopher  of  France,  ex- 
piated his  temerity  with  his  blood  :  the  strong  arm  of 
secular  power  was,  in  that  country,  repeatedly  called 
in  to  crush  the  good  sense  of  mankind  ;  and  the  Aristo- 
telian system  might  still  longer  have  defended  itself  be- 
hind the  barrier  thus  erected,  had  it  not  been  assailed 
by  the  keen  and  polished  shafts  of  elegant  ridicule. 

The  chains  which  had  so  long  bound  the  human 
mind,  seemed,  on  the  promulgation  of  Lord  Bacon's  sys- 
tem, to  drop  off;  while  philosophy,  both  natural,  and 
mental,  began  to  advance  with  a  rapidity  before  un- 
known. But  the  old  system  still  kept  its  footing  among 
ancient  literary  incorporations.  Some  real  advantages, 
and  a  thousand  venerable  associations,  gave  it  immense 
influence  in  these  ancient  seats  of  learning,  and  it  con- 
tinues, even  now,  to  form  a  part  of  academical  educa- 
tion. 

I  should  now  conclude  with  pointing  out  the  relations 
which  logic  bears  to  other  branches  of  knowledge:  but 


173 

the  enumeration  would  include  the  whole  circle  of  sci»- 
ences  :  for  what  operation  of  intellect  is  there  in  which 
either  clear  notions,  or  methodical  arrangement,  or 
sound  reasoning  are  not  desirable  ? 


174 
THE  DREAM* 

Or,  HUMAN  MISERY. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

I  KNOW  not  how  it  was — if  on  my  breast 

A  more  than  wonted  load  of  sorrow  prest; 

Or  if  such  thoug-hts  as  sometimes  force  their  way, 

Tho'  all  around  be  happy,  bright  and  gay; 

If  such  had  dwelt  within  my  soul,  until 

My  heart  retained  the  sad  impression  still. 

When  sleep  had  snapt  the  soberer  chain  of  thought, 

And  wearied  nature  found  the  rest  she  sought  ; 

I  dream'd  of  horrors — for  in  dreams  the  mind 

Stretches  her  mighty  pinions  unconfined  ; 

Smiles  at  her  new-found  freedom  : — from  on  high 

Draws  the  first  breath  of  immortality ; 

Just  opes  the  curtain  of  the  other  world, 

Eternity's  broad  map  sees  half  unfurl'd. 

Expatiates  boldly  in  her  wide  domain, 

And  sways  the  sceptre  of  her  mighty  reign. 

I  thought  I  ranged  Creation  unconfin'd, 
Rock'd  on  the  storm,  or  borne  upon  the  wind  ; 
As  if  some  viewless  influence  urg'd  my  flight, 
Dispers'd  the  shades,  and  made  ev^n  darkness  light  ; 

*  The  fanciful  remarks  by  wliich  the  youthful   poet  introduct 
ed  this  fragment,  aud  those  which  followed  it,  are  here  omiltpd. 

Am.  Ed. 


175 

And,  where  the  sunshine  gleam'd,  or  frown'd  the  storm 
Bade  human  wo,  in  every  Proteus-ibrm 
Of  grief  and  pain,  remorse  and  shame  and  fear, 
With  every  shape  of  agony  appear. 

Stript  of  its  veil,  the  human  heart  was  shown 
Depriv'd  of  every  coloring  not  its  own  : 
While  grief,  regret,  and  care,  without  control, 
Reign'd  undisputed  sovereigns  of  the  soul. 

I  know  not  if  it  shall  be  thus,  when  death 
Asserts  his  empire  o'er  our  fleeting  breath  ; 
If,  unrestrain'd,  the  ever-living  soul 
.Shall  pierce  the  centre,  or  shall  reach  the  pole  ; 
Or  view  the  shifting  scenes,  the  varying  strife, 
In  all  the  winding,  wildering  paths  of  life  ; 
And  mark  each  wandering,  in  a  different  way, 
T'ward  the  last  narrow  dwelling-house  of  clay — 
How  this  may  be,  we  know  not :   but  the  mind 
Sometimes  "  leaves  dull  mortality  behind," 
Forgets  the  interests  of  the  passing  hour, 
And  gives  some  presage  of  her  future  power. 

I  thought  I  heard  the  ocean's  dreadful  roar, 
Its  billows  swung  against  the  rocky  shore  ; 
While  o'pp  the  darken''d  heavens  the  lightning  flies, 
Now  sinks — now  covers  the  resplendent  skies — 
Ah!   while  the  tempest  thunders  all  around. 
What  shriek  of  horror  mingles  with  the  sound? 
— A  ship  has  struck  ! — I  hear  a  second  call, — 
The  cry  of  many,  and  the  dirge  of  all. 


176 

And  then  'twas  silent  quite — except  alone 
Some  mighty  swimmer's  solitary  groan ; 
Or  faintly  borne  upon  the  fitful  blast. 
The  cries  of  those  who  clung  about  the  mast. 

Yet  one  there  was,  who,  in  the  dashing  sea, 
Still  flung  the  mighty  waves  back  gallantly  : 
His  was  a  life  of  sin  ;  and  from  their  lair, 
Conscience  had  rous'd  the  hell-hounds  of  despair ; 
And  now,  at  last,  in  this  the  trying  time, 
He  lost  the  settled  hardihood  of  crime  ; 
And  would  have  pray'd  for  mercy ; — but  the  word 
He  must  not  speak — that  prayer  could  ne'er  be  heard 
For  in  his  ears  the  cries  of  orphans  rung, 
And  many  a  curse  from  many  a  widow's  tongue — 
He  sunk — he  rose — he  grasp'd  a  rock, — and  then, 
Borne  by  the  refluent  surge,  he  sunk  again, — 
Again  he  rose,  and  strain'd  to  reach  the  shore. 
He  pants — he  gasps — he  sinks — and  all  is  o'er. 

There  was  a  change.— And  now  I  thought  no  more 
Of  bounding  billows,  or  the  wave-lashed  shore  : 
I  dreamed  the  moon  was  up — her  orb  on  high 
Sail'd  through  a  cloudless  azure  deep  of  sky  ; 
In  faint  blue  outline  distant  hills  were  spread. 
And  mightier  mountains  rear'd  their  snowy  head. 

It  was  the  eve  of  battle. — On  the  plain 
The  victors  slumbered — slumbered  too  the  slain. 
Wolves  savage  tore  the  beating  heart  away, 
And  vultures  screaming,  flapp'd  o'er  living  prey. 


177 

The  cold  night  wind  blew  keen — the  dreadful  smart 
Made  ev'n  the  dying  man  with  anguish  start; 
The  wounded  felt  the  fever's  burning  pain, 
And  pray'd  for  water,  but  they  cried  in  vain  ; 
Or  thought  of  home  ;   and,  rising  from  the  ground, 
While  bloody  torrents  pour'd  from  ev'ry  wound, 
Delirious  strove  to  reach  th'  accustomed  place. 
Catch  the  dear  glance,  and  share  the  lov'd  embrace. 

But  one  upon  the  bloody  ground  there  lay, 
His  gore,  through  many  a  gash,  ebb'd  fast  away ; 
And  while  he  felt  the  swelling  current  flow, 
And  life's  poor  embers  almost  cease  to  glow  ; 
The  thoughts  that  haunted   him  were  thoughts  that 
O'er  the  dark  closing  scene  a  darker  hue —    [threw 
Thoughts  of  the  ra'o  who,  silver'd  o'er  with  years. 
Hoped  for  his  guidance  through  the  vale  of  tears — 
His  to  support  their  steps,  and  his  the  power 
To  bear  the  storm,  or  else  avert  the  shower. 
But  with  the  rest,  a  tenderer  image  came, 
To  make  his  gory  bed  a  couch  of  flame. 
Must  she,  too,  wander  through  life's  gloomy  way, 
No  eye  to  cheer  her,  and  no  arm  to  stay  ? 

Was  it  some  trance,  that  o'er  the  senses  steals 
When  strength  is  failing,  and  when  reason  reels 
Absorbs  the  soul,  and,  wildly  mingling,  shows 
A  gleam  of  pleasure  with  a  world  of  woes? 
Or  did  he  see  that  angel  form  flit  by. 
To  call  back  lustre  to  his  fading  eye  ? 


15 


178 

Yes ! — for  one  moment  all  his  pains  are  fled, 
And  half  he  rises  from  his  bloody  bed : 
But  death's  dark  hand  was  heavy — and  the  tide 
Swelled  in  black  torrents  from  his  wounded  side  ; 
And  then  he  named  her — but  the  whispers  slip 
Unheard,  unnoticed,  from  his  dying  lip; — 
Again  he  strove  to  speak — but  made  alone 
The  hollow  murmur  of  a  dying  groan. 
Oh  !  then  1  saw  the  gathering  black  despair, 
And  then  the  falt'ring  half-convulsive  prayer; 
While  faint  and  fainter  came  the  sinking  breath, 
Stopp'd  by  the  cold,  the  freezing  touch  of  death. 

Just  when  the  last  expiring  spark  was  dying, 
Just  when  the  latest  flame  of  life  was  flying. 
Just  when  the  vulture,  scar'd  no  more  away 
In  airy  circles  flew,  to  mark  his  prey  ; 
At  death's  cold  touch,  when  all  was  still'd  forever, 
And  ev'n  the  quivering  lip  had  ceased   to  quiver — - 
Just  then  I  saw  a  lady,  who  had  trod, 
With  fearless  steps,  along  the  bloody  sod ; 
Her  had  one  hope,  one  fear,  one  thought  possess'd, 
And  quell'd  each  shuddering  tremor  of  the  breast. 

But  hope  and  fear  alike  were  over  now, 
The  moon-beam  stream'd  upon  that  pallid  brow. 
'Twas  all  she  sought — and  if  her  all  were  found 
Stretch'd  cold  and  lifeless  on  the  gory  ground, 
The  battle  plain  must  be  their  bridal  bed. 
Death  their  grim  priest — their  marriage -train  the 
dead  ! 


179 

Forward  she  sprung  :  Oh  !  life  mi^hf  yet  remain  ,• 
Sure  'twould  return,  and  meet  her  once  ag'nin  ; 
'Twould  light  his  eye,  before  it  quite  departed, 
And  left  her  hopeless,  helpless,  broken-hearted  ! 
Then  she  could  lay  her  on  his  marble  breast, 
Her  last  cold  pillow  of  eternal  rest  ! 

She  pressM  his  cheek  in  frantic  agony — 
No  whisper  stole,  no  soft  responsive  sigh — 
And  the  late  hope,  whose  momentary  light 
Shone  like  a  star  amid  the  shades  of  night. 
Now  sunk  in  darkness ; — and  its  fleeting  gleam, — 
The  bright  illusion  of  a  troubled  dream; 
Or  like  the  flashing,  varying  lights  that  fly, 
In  stormy  weather,  o'er  the  northern  sky, — 
Was  gone.     In  Summer's  bright  meridian  blaze 
We  scarcely  heed  the  sun's  unclouded  rays  ; 
But  watch,  when  Winter's  scowls  the  sky  deform, 
To  catch  a  gleam  of  light  athwart  the  storm  : 
So  Hope's  last  radiance,  as  it  dies  away, 
Seems  dearer  ev'n  than  pleasure's  brightest  ray; 
But  if  it  set  forever,  sadly  roll 
Deep,  dark,  unvarying  sorrows  o'er  the  soul ; 
Like  ihe  wide  shoreless  waste  of  waters  huri'd, 
By  heaven's  excited  vengeance,  on  the  world.* 

Her  heart  was  wasted,  and  the  tie  that  bound 
■  Her  sympathies  to  all  the  world  around 
Was  snapt — I  thought  her  brightly-glancing  eye 
In  pensive  rapture  wanderd  t'ward  the  sky  : 

*  Gen.  vii.  18,  19. 


180 

But  her's  was  not  the  idiot's  soulless  stare, 
That  strangely  fixes,  and  he  knows  not  where:' 
Her's  was  a  glance  that  spoke  of  thoughts  on  high 
Her  mind  had  learned  to  people  vacancy  ; 
And  then  so  sweetly,  wildly  soft  she  sung, 
I  could  have  thought  the  notes  of  angels  rung — 
But  that  1  heard  some  plaintive  sounds,  to  show 
The  strain  was  human — for  it  spake  of  wo  ! 

SONG. 

1. 

In  vain  they  spread  this  couch  for  thee, 
And  threw  this  bloody  mantle  o'er. 

For  here  the  choicest  flowers  shall  be, 
And  tears  shall  wash  away  the  gore  ; 

And  thou  wilt  smile  to  see  me  spread 

The  blooming  chaplet  on  thy  head. 

Oh  !  did  I  see  thy  heavenly  smile  ? 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  here  below 

To  wait  and  weep,  and  sigh  the  while, 
And  wander  through  the  vale  of  wo  ; 

Nor  stoop,  and  help  thy  love  to  rise 

With  thee  to  yonder  brilliant  skies? 

3. 

If  o'er  the  world  spread  light  or  gloom, 
The  world  to  me  is  cold  and  drear — 
This  little  sacred  spot, — thy  tomb — 


181 

The  only  ground  to  me  that's  dear. 
Here  will  1  bid  the  wild  flower  wave, 
And  roses  blush  above  thy  grave. 

4. 

Then  take  me  from  this  earth  away,    ' 
And  we  will  come  on  wings  of  light, 

Spread  the  soft  flow'ret  o'er  thy  clay, 
And  gem  it  with  the  dew  of  night; 

Then  leave  this  worthless  world,  and  go 

Where  mourner's  tear  shall  never  flow. 

5. 

But  if  with  thee  I  may  not  fly, 
Oh  !  hover  still  around  thy  love. 

Whisper  in  zephyr's  gentle  sigh, 
And  tell  me  we  shall  meet  above! 

And  when  some  days  of  grief  are  fled, 

I'll  lay  with  thine  my  weary  head. 

6. 

Then  let  me  stop  the  tears  that  start, 
And  be  the  rising  sigh  supprest ; 

And  if  1  feel  a  bleeding  heart,  '' 

The  burden  of  this  throbbing  breast — 

Pour  o'er  my  soul  a  heavenly  balm. 

Her  griefs  assuage,  her  troubles  calm  ! 


There  was  a  change.     I  saw  a  curtained  room  ; 
A  light  stole  in,  that  scarcely  chased  the  gloom. 
15* 


I 


182 

With  looks  of  anxious  care,  around  the  bed, 

Attendants  stood- — to  prop  the  sick  man's  head, 

To  soothe  his  pangs,  or  transient  ease  impart. 

By  all  the  softest  antidotes  of  art. 

And  those  who  loved  him  most,  and  therefore  caught 

At  every  change  disease's  progress  wrought. 

Stood  trembling  round  his  bed,  yet  hoping  still, 

At  every  new  vicissitude  of  ill. 

Hoping,  it  might  betoken  that,  at  last, 

The  deadly  crisis  of  disease  was  past. 

And  now  that  hope  was  higher,  and  a  smile 

Shone  thro'  the  tears,  that  trickled  all  the  while— ^ 

Tears — but  not  such  as  sorrowers  learn  to  shed. 

When  joy  hath  vanished,  and  even  hope  is  dead — 

These  spoke  that  softer  tumult  of  the  soul, 

W^hen  joy  and  fear  assert  a  mixed  control. 

He  sweetly  slept — and  nature's  potent  balm 

Might  the  tumultuous  force  of  torture  calm  ; 

And  slumber's  streams  oblivious  coolly  flow, 

Till  burning  fever  ceased,  at  length,  to  glow. 

And  those  who  loved  him  watched  his  bed  ;  for  there 
In  silence  sat  the  partner  of  his  care  : 
She  only  did  not  weep  :  for  hourly  fears, 
Long  days  of  sorrow,  and  long  nights  of  tears 
Had  trained  her  to  companionship  of  wo. 
Or  dried  the  fountain  whence  the  tear  should  flow. 
Yet  the  expression  of  her  faded  eye 
Was  humble,  quiet,  patient  constancy. 
Each  chastening  stroke,  acutely,  formed  to  feel ; 
Severely  suffer,  yet  submissive  kneel ; 


183 

She  fixed  on  that  emaciated  form 

A  look  intent,  solicitou?,  and  warm  ; 

And  speaking  all  the  fullness  of  a  heart 

That  feared  they  must,  yet  felt  they  could  not,  part.; 

Still  o'er  her  features,  trembling  hope  could  throw 

A  transient  gleam,  an  evanescent  glow, 

Hope,  which  amid  the  darker  scenes  of  grief, 

Suggested  comfort  and  supplied  relief. 

No  more  with  fever  throbbed  his  burning  brain  ; 
And  placid  Sleep  proclaimed  a  truce  with  pain  ; 
Judgment  would  not  th'  illusive  charm  destroy  j 
Love's  brilliant  coloring  made  it  look  like  joy  ; 
Grief  almost  smiled  to  see  the  doubtful  ray, 
And  Hope's  fair  magic  brightened  it  today. 

Over  the  sick  man's  couch  his  daughter  hangs, 
To  mark  his  sufferings  and  relieve  his  pangs ; 
Catch,  vainly  catch,  at  every  dubious  ray 
That  came,  and  then  forever  passed  away. 
Each  transient  gleam,  that  gave  a  short  relief, 
Ease  to  her  woes,  and  solace  to  her  grief, 
To  lean  on  hope,  till  hope  itself  decayed. 
And  left  the  heart  forsaken  and  betrayed. 
Now  from  the  sick  man  pain  was  gone  :   his  eye 
Was  closed  in  gentle  slumber  peacefully  ; 
Such  silence  all  around,  that  you  might  hear 
Almost  the  falling  of  the  gushing  tear; 
And  then  so  deep,  so  gentle  his  repose. 
So  sweet  the  soothing  quiet  of  his  woes, 


184 

That  sorrow  lighted  up  her  cheerless  eye, 
And  half  repressed  her  long  accustomed  sigh. 

There  was  a  shudder — then  a  deep  drawn  breath- 
Then  still— still—silent  all Can  this  be  death  ? 

Oh!  if  the  feeble  hand  of  youth  might  dare 
To  trace  the  deeper  workings  of  despair, 
Then  would  I  tell  the  widow's  mute  dismay, 
When  from  the  body  forc'd  at  length  away  ; 
Describe  the  orphan's  sobs — the  answers  given 
To  those  who,  pointing  to  the  will  of  heav'n, 
Of  calmness  talk,  or  words  of  comfort  pour, 
While  the  heart,  bleeding,  does  but  bleed  the  more- 
Mark  the  vain  efforts  to  impart  relief. 
And  paint  each  dread  concomitant  of  grief. 


There  was  a  change. — I  saw  a  narrow  cell. 
The  moonlight  pale  through  dismal  gratings  fell, 
And  yet  enough  had  struggled  in  to  show 
The  dark  interior  of  this  house  of  wo  : 
The  stony  walls  were  bare,  save  where  was  spread 
The  busy  insect's  finely-woven  thread  ; 
While  from  the  damp  low  roof,  with  plashing  sound, 
The  constant  droppings  fall  upon  the  ground. 

No  other  noise  was  heard,  except  alone, 
The  wind  deep  sighing,  or  the  prisoner's  moan, 
Or  the  chain  clanking,  while  the  drear  night  blast 
Shook  the  cold  licobs  that  shiver'd  as  it  passed. 


185 

On  the  cold  ground  the  prisoner  lay — to-morrow 
Would  see  the  ending  of  his  earthly  sorrow. 
To  die,  indeed,  he  thought  a  little  thing  : 
When  from  the  clay  the  struggling  soul  takes  wing, 
To  fly  she  knows  not  whither,  or  to  bear 
The  endless,  hopeless,  torments  of  despair. — 
The  livid,  quivering  lip  ! — the  gasp  for  breath  ! 
And  all  the  unknown  agonies  of  death  ! 

There  is  a  small,  but  wide  meandering  stream, 
Where  falls,  in  Summer's  days,  the  chequered  beam. 
Through  the  thick  trees,  whose  deep  and  leafy  shade 
Invites  the  zephyrs  to  their  cooling  glade  ; 
The  rays  that  fall  glance  brightlj'  on  the  wave, 
While  the  green  bank  its  rippling  waters  lave. 

Just  by  that  stream,  the  home,  where  once  his  mind 
Had  tasted  pleasures  simple,  but  refined, — 
The  joys  of  boyhood — when  the  happy  child 
Saw  smiling  Nature,  and  on  nature  smil'd. 
Felt  the  delights  that  swell  the  youthful  heart, 
By  crime  untainted,  and  unbound  by  art ; 
Soon  dash'd  the  tear  from  pleasure's  eye  of  light^ 
A  moment  clouded,  but  forever  bright ; 
Sprung  forth  to  catch  the  earliest  gleam  of  day, 
And  brush'd  the  sparkling  drops  of  dew  away; 
And,  in  the  evening,  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
Calm  as  the  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 

There  too  his  manhood  passed — that  cot  had  been 
Of  many  a  harmless  joy  the  happy  scene  : 


186 

There,  when  the  ended  labors  of  the  day 
Gave  rest  to  ag'e — to  laughing-  childhood  play — 
His  children,  crowding  for  their  father's  kiss. 
Gave  the  fine  thrill  of  warm  paternal  bliss  ; 
While  the  fond  mother  standing  joyful  by, 
Wip'd  the  soft  tear  of  gladness  from  her  eye, 
Felt  all  the  richness  of  maternal  love, 
And  bless'd  the  hand  that  shower'd  it  from  above. 

And  now  how  chang'd  he  was !  This  thought  alone 
Gave  death  new  horrors  that  were  not  his  own. 

If  he  look'd  back,  he  scarce  could  mark  the  time 
When  first  he  trod  the  devious  ways  of  crime  : 
He  rather  found  that  virtue  had  given  way 
Beneath  the  influence  of  unmarked  decay; 
And  then  a  wretched  interval  of  life,    • 
Fill'd  with  the  wiidness  of  chaotic  strife, 
When  passion''s  maddening  tumult  strangely  rose, 
Crime  following  crime,  and  woes  succeeding  woes  | 
Lash''d  by  remorse,  and  goaded  by  despair. 
And  worn  by  all  the  torturous  stings  of  care  ; 
With  ruined  prospects,  and  each  hope  o'erthrown. 
He  did  the  deed  of  blood,  that  calls  for  blood  alone. 

Since,  had  tempestuous  feelings  reachM  his  breast. 
The  whirl  of  passion,  without  hope  of  rest; 
Remorse,  despair,  and  mingling  dread  combin'd 
To  tix,  and  sink,  and  rankle  in  his  mind. 

Turn'd  on  himself— his  fall,  his  loss,  his  crime, 
His  future  fate,  his  hopelessness  in  time, 


187 

He  little  thought  of  Law's  avenging  doom, 
The  waiting  scaiTold,  or  the  gaping  tomb, 
Nor  valued  safety,  which  could  only  give 
Remorse's  scorpions  longer  time  to  live. 

But  Law  had  seiz'd  him,  and  his  doom  was  past; 
And  death's  grim  angel  near  approach'd  at  last; 
The  torpor,  which  had  held  his  soul,  gave  way, 
Like  darkness  yielding  to  the  beam  of  day. 
Less  painful  if  forever  coldly  there 
Had  dwelt  the  freezing  numbness  of  despair: 
For  now,  awakened  on  the  verge  of  (ate. 
He  gaz'd  on  danger — but  he  gaz'd  too  late — 
'Twas  but  to  shrink — to  dread  to  yield  his  breath- — 
Yet  see  no  gleam  of  blessing  after  death  ; — 
Shivering  to  stand  upon  the  dreadful  shore, 
View  the  broad  sea,  and  hear  the  billows  roar; 
Yet  catch  no  cherub  voice  of  heavenly  love, 
To  whisper  peace  and  mercy  from  above. 
His  eyes  were  opened,  and,  in  full  display, 
Outstretch'd  eternity  before  him  lay. 
Without  one  blessed  hope  to  lull  to  rest 
The  rising  tumult  of  his  heaving  breast. 
I  said,  'twas  like  the  beam  of  early  light. 
That  streaks  the  sombre  canopy  of  night  ; 
'Twas  rather  like  the  red  portentous  gleam, 
That  flashes  o'er  the  melting  lava-stream. 

The  night  was  i=pent  in  tossing?  to  and  fro 
The  wretched  oflspring  of  despair  and  wo; — 


188 

Wo  that  had  torn  his  lacerated  heai^t, — 
Despair  that  bade  the  angel  Hope,  depart : 
And  if  exhaustion  e'er  availed  to  steep 
His  wearied  senses  in  the  balm  of  sleep; 
He  groaned  and  started,  till  the  rattling  chain 
CallM  back  his  dungeon  and  his  fate  again  ; 
Dreamed  that  he  held  the  brandish'd  knife  on  high, 
Marked  the  pale  lip,  and  caught  the  dying  sigh, 
Cleansed  the  dim  weapon  of  the  reeking  gore, 
And  washed  his  hands  of  murder,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  flames  infuriate  wildly  round  him  roll. 
Rock  the  wide  earth,  and  shake  the  sounding  pole  ; 
While  hp,  all  trembling  'mid  the  general  tire. 
Stands  the  sole  mark  of  heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 
Till  starting  wild,  he  almost  found  relief 
Amid  the  cold  realities  of  grief. 

The  sua  arose.  O'erwhelm'd  with  shame  and  crime, 
About  to  cross  the  narrow  bound  of  time  ; 
Sadly  he  watched  the  morning's  ruddy  beam, 
Which  through  the  gratings  now  began  to  stream. 

The  bolts  fly  back — the  prisoner  heard  the  sound, 
And  slowly,  sternlj',  rais'd  him  from  the  ground; 
Collecting  all  the  calmness  of  despair, 
What  must  be  borne,  with  dignity  to  bear. 

'Twas  like  a  dream  before  his  wildering  eyes, 
A  flash  of  mingled  horror  and  surprise. 
Through  (he  low  porch  a  woman  rnsh'd,  whose  face 
Bore  all  the  lines  intensest  grief  can  trace  ; 


189 

And  with  a  feeble  cry,  that  yet  express'd 

Her  hopeless  sorrow,  sunk  upon  his  breast. 

And  did  that  cry  remind  him  of  a  voice 

Whose  sound  could  once  bid  all  around  rejoice  1 

And  had  he  seen  that  rayless  eye  before, 

Whence  tears  had  flow'd  till  tears  could  flow  no  more, 

Reflect  each  gentle  look  of  bliss  and  love. 

As  the  clear  lake  the  sunbeam  from  above  ? 

Yes,  it  was  she, — the  injured,  the  betrayed — ■ 
Her  joys  all  faded,  and  her  hope  decayed — 
And  still  adhering  to  her  husband''s  breast, 
As  the  dove  flutters  round  her  falling  nest. 

His  children  too  were  there  ;  and  stood  amaz'd  ; 
GazM  on  their  mother — on  the  pris'ner  gaz'd  : 
Scarce  in  the  altered  visage  could  they  trace 
The  former  features  of  their  father''s  face. 
They  heard  their  mother's  sighs,  and  gathered  near, 
While  each  young  eye  grew  sparkling  with  a  tear. 
Upon  its  sister's  arm  the  youngest  slept ; 
Then  waked  to  smile,  when  all  around  it  wept. 
Oh  !  this  was  bitter!  amid  all  his  woes 
To  lose  the  only  thought  that  gave  repose  ; 
And  Gnd  commingled  with  the  draught  of  wo 
What  filled  the  bitter  cup  to  overflow. 

Amid  remorse,  and  shame,  and  restless  grief, 
One  hope  administered  some  faint  relief — 
That  all  his  shame  and  grief  were  hid  from  those 
Who  still  might  share,  but  not  relieve,  his  woes  ; 
16 


190 

On  whom  disgrace,  deserved  by  him  alone, 

Would  throw  dishonor  that  was  not  their  own ; 

With  crimson  dye  the  most  unsullied  fame. 

And  add  to  sorrow's  pangs  the  bitterer  pangs  of  shame. 

To  die  is  bitter  :  but  to  die  alone, 
Unwept,  unblessed,  unpitied,  and  unknown, 
AVithout  one  friend  to  close  the  swimming  eye. 
Wipe  the  damp  brow,  and  catch  the  parting  sigh — 
Oh  ! — this  to  death  can  keener  pangs  impart, 
Can  pierce  the  soul,  and  rankle  at  the  heart. 

But  oh  !  when  crowds  intently  gazing  round. 
Watch  every  look,  and  wait  for  every  sound. 
To  mark  how  death,  and  dread,  and  guilt,  and  shame. 
And  blasted  hope,  and  character  and  fame. 
Fear  of  the  future,  horror  for  the  past, 
Can  shake  the  wavering,  trembling  soul  at  last — 
Then,  if  some  friend,  whose  image  once  arose. 
Balm  of  our  fears,  and  comfort  of  our  woes. 
For  whom  our  love  the  tinest  feelings  twined 
With  all  the  finer  texture  of  the  mind. 
Has  mixed  with  every  better  thought — has  been 
The  brightest  ray  in  every  brighter  scene  ; 
Or  if  misfortune's  clouds  around  us  lower, 
A  beam  of  sunshine  peeping  through  the  shower — 
If  such  a  friend  step  forward,  calmly  bold. 
To  brave  the  frown,  himself  that  frown  withhold; 
Nor  join  the  coldly  virtuous,  cheaply-good. 
Who  hate  the  fall,  where  they  themselves  have  stood 
— Then  varied  feelings  dwell  within  the  heart, 


191 

The  balm  is  soothing',  althoug-h  sharp  the  smart. 

Dear  as  a  gleam  of  mercy  from  on  hig'h, 

One  glance  of  friendship's  sympathising-  eye  : 

But  deep  the  grief,  to  know  its  glance  takes  la 

The  proof  of  crime,  the  dread  reward  of  sin.  , 

But  for  the  prisoner,  where  the  potent  charm 

To  still  his  pangs,  or  quiet  bis  alarm  ? 

The  heart,  o'er  which  the  potent  spells  that  bind 

In  chains  of  adamant,  the  human  mind — 

Alike,  in  every  age,  in  every  hour — 

O'ercorae  by  love  for  him — had  lost  their  power — 

This  was  the  heart,  o'er  which  his  crimes  had  thrown 

A  hue  of  sorrow  dark  as  was  his  own. 

To  her  the  cruel  smile  of  scornful  hate, 
Which  the  world  turns  upon  the  desolate, 
While  even  gentle  pity  ill  can  hide 
The  rising  struggle  of  offended  pride  j 
To  her  the  frown  that  lowers  upon  the  few 
Who  dare  to  face  what  others  fear  to  view — 
To  face  the  poisoned  darts  by  slander  hurled, 
To  face  the  scorn  and  anger  of  the  world  — 
To  her  the  praise  and  censure  others  prized, 
Alike  indifferent,  and  alike  despised. 

I  will  not  strive,  beyond  my  feeble  power, 
To  paint  the  horrors  of  that  dreadful  hour. 
How  vain  the  words  of  soothing  comfort  flow, 
Like  the  pure  moon-beam  on  the  polar  snow — 
The  silvery  light  may  spread  a  second  day, 
But  the  cold  frost-work  wiil  not  melt  away. 


192 

His  children's  looks  of  love,  each  fond  caress 

Received  from  cherished  infant  tenderness, 

But  pierced  his  heart  with  keener  anguish  through, 

And  cast  o'er  all  the  scene  a  darker  hue. 

My  mind  retains  no  more.     Each  image  glancing, 

Like  light  upon  the  dark  blue  ocean  dancing  ; 

Or  like  a  flitting,  dying,  wavering  flame, 

In  broken  indistinctness  went  and  came. 


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As  this  fragment  closes  the  extracts  from  essays  of  the 
second  session  at  college,  I  take  the  liberty  of  present- 
ing the  testimonial  of  Professor  Jardine,  in  whose  class 
William  spent  a  large  portion  of  that  time,  though  he 
generally  attended  the  Greek  with  the  late  Professor 
Young,  and  not  unfrequently  (I  think)  the  Lectures  of 
Professor  Walker.  This  testimonial  is  given  rather  in 
the  form  of  a  certificate  than  in  that  of  a  letter. 

Glasgow  College,  Feb.  16,  1822. 

I  cERTrFY  that  Mr  William  F.  Durant  attend- 
ed the  Logic  and  Rhetoric  Class  in  this  University  ;  and, 
in  the  examinations  and  exercises,  gave  most  satisf)'ing 
j)roofs  of  Tincommon  abilities,  vigorous  application,  and 
great  success  ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the  session,  the  first 
and  highest  prize  was  bestowed  on  him  by  the  unani- 


193 

mous  approbation  of  his  fellow  students.  To  the  above, 
I  have  only  to  add,  that  no  student  ever  recommended 
himself  more  to  my  good  opinion,  than  Mr  Durant  did, 
by  a  promise  of  great  future  attainments — or  to  my  af- 
fections, by  more  amiable  dispositions — more  pleasing 
manners — by  a  conduct  more  regular  or  more  strictly 
academical.     In  testimony  whereof, 

Geo.  Jardine, 

Log.  el  Rhet.  P. 


16' 


194 


He  returned  in  May,  1820,  found  us  happy,  and  made 
us  more  so.  Time  had  softened  down  our  grief,  had 
given  a  mellowness  to  the  scenes  of  1818;  and  we 
could  dare  to  talk,  for  the  first  time,  without  agony,  and 
even  with  a  soothing  pleasure,  of  the  dear  departed. 
His  aunt,  though  far  from  strong,  was  in  better  health  ; 
lie  was  peculiarly  well ;  and  we  had  scarcely  ever 
known  a  more  peaceful  summer.  During  this  vacation, 
he  undertook  to  write  for  a  University  prize  ;  the  com- 
petition for  which,  open  to  graduates  and  undergradu- 
ates, lay  among  fit'teen  hundred  young  men.  Earl  Glas- 
gow, who  had  been  Lord  Rector  of  the  College,  had 
proposed  a  ten-guinea  prize  for  the  best  Essay  "  on  the 
ADVANTAGES  OF  CLASSICAL  LEARNiiNG."'  When  William  an- 
nounced to  me  his  intention,  he  candidly  said,  "  1  think 
I  have  no  chance  of  getting  it  ;  hut  in  such  a  struggle, 
it  is  no  dishonor  to  fail  :  and,  at  any  rate,  the  effort  will 
do  me  good."  It  cost  him  certainly  no  small  labour  ; 
and  displayed  great  improvement  in  composition,  in  nice 
discrimination,  and  in  general  learning.  He  did  not 
gain  that  prize  :  but  as  the  contest  had  been  so  severe 
— for  sixteen,  I  think,  wrote  for  it — and  as  many  of  the 
essays  were  very  superior,  the  professors  had  deter- 
mined on  adding  another  prize  to  that  of  Lord  Glasgow 
• — and  that  prize,  after  a  high  compliment  on  the  essay 
in  the  Public  Hall,  from  one  of  the  professors,  before  it 
was  known  by  whom  it  was  composed — fell  to  the  lot 
of  my  dear  son.     The  first  was  gained  by  a  gentleman, 


195 

some  years  older  than  himself,  and  whose  family  had 
all  been  distinguished,  at  that  seat  of  learning,  for  their 
high  intellectual  character.  The  rest,  it  may  be  pretty 
confidently  asserted,  were  not  younger  than  he,  and 
some  of  them  were  unquestionably  much  older  ;  for  he 
was,  when  he  wrote  it,  only  between  seventeen  and 
eighteen.  None,  I  believe,  envied  him  his  honors  ; 
they  knew  that  he  deserved  them  ;  and  the  modesty 
with  which  he  bore  them,  conciliated  universal  esteem. 
The  e^say,  as  large  or  larger  than  that  on  the  Tribuni- 
cial Power,  is  too  extensive  for  this  work  ;  nor  will  it 
well  bear  compression. 

He  renewed,  in  this  vacation,  his  Latin  composition 
and  Greek  reading.  But  as  he  was  about  to  enter  the 
mathematical  and  moral  philosophy  classes,  he  prepar- 
ed himself  by  getting  through  the  first  six,  and  the 
eleventh  books  of  Euclid  ;  Bonnycastle's  Algebra,  &;c.  ; 
and  by  reading  Paley  and  some  other  works  on  mental 
and  moral  philosophy.  He  contrived,  amidst  all  his 
other  engagements,  to  read  a  great  deal  of  general  and 
ephemeral  literature  ;  and  begun  a  pretty  little  piece 
on  an  affecting  incident  with  which  he  met  in  M'Cree's 
Life  of  Melville. 

Fired  with  the  love  of  liberty  ;  and  with  a  detesta- 
tion of  slavery,  so  natural  to  a  youthful  and  ardent  mind^ 
he  felt  indignant  at  the  restraints  imposed  upon  the  con- 
tinental nations,  by  those  very  men,  who  had,  in  the 
hour  of  extieme  danger,  thrown  themselves  upon  the 
patriotism  of  their  people,  and  promised  them,  as  the 
reward  of  their  exertions,  liberal  and  beneticent  polit- 
ical institutions  ;  but  had,  in  many  cases,  redeemed  their 


196 

pledge,  by  imprisoning-,  chaining,  or  expatriating  some 
of  those  who  had  fought  and  bled  in  the  cause  of  legiti- 
macy and  order.     His  society  at  College,  where  almost 
every  youth  of  talent  was  an  avowed  admirer  of  free- 
dom, was  not  likely  to  cool  his  political  ardor  ;  and  he 
brought   home  a  much  larger  share  of  "  whiggery,"  as 
he    terms   it  in  his  letters,  than  he  had  carried  thither. 
Whig   principles  were,  indeed,  those  in  which  he  had 
been  educated  ;    for   they   are   the   principles  to  which 
protestant  dissenters  owe  all  their  religious  liberties  ; 
but  they  had,   about  this    time,   acquired    considerable 
force.      Under  the   strong  impressions  of  the  moment, 
he  began  a  poem,  entitled,    "  Ji   review  of  Modern  Des- 
potsy     My  son  greatly  admired  monarchical  power,  as 
limited  by  the  British  constitution  :  he  was,  indeed,  en- 
thusiastically attached  to   it,  as  he   was  to  every  thing 
belonging  to  his  own  country.      The  piece  was  written 
just  as  the  patriotic  Spaniards  were  making  their  last — 
and  let  it  be  hoped,  their  successful — struggle  for  liber- 
ty.    From  the  temper  displayed  by  nearly   all  the  con- 
tinental cabinets,  it  is  pretty  clear,  that  had  not  France 
— yet  agitated  with   the  shock  of  the  Revolution — and 
the   Pyrenees  interposed  between  Germany  and  Spain, 
the  peninsular  revolutionists  would  have  shared  the  fate 
of  the  Neapolitan.       How  far  William  intended  to  pro- 
ceed when  he  began  the  sketch,  1  know  not.    His  sense 
of  justice   and   his  loj'alty   would   unquestionably  have 
confined  him  to  the  continent — some  of  whose  monarchs 
would  furnish  no  scanty  materials  for  the  indignant  num- 
bers of  the  satirist  :    but,  as  the  royal  mantuamaker  of 
Spain  claimed  the   first  niche  in  the  panbasilicon,  the 


1 


197 

writer  fixed  him  there,  and  seems  to  have  been,  for  the 
moment,  satisfied  with  his  achievement;  for  he  never 
proceeded  farther.  The  piece,  though  very  spirited,  is 
too  imperfect  to  be  offered  to  the  pubUc.  But  a  part 
of  the  poem  on  Melville,  with  a  few  short  fragments 
besides,  written  at  this  time,  will  be  found  in  the  follow- 
ing pages. 

MELVILLE  AND  HIS  PUPIL. 

"  In  1566,  Admiral  Coligne,  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
testant  army,  laid  siege  to  the  city  of  Poictiers,  which 
was  vigorously  defended  by  the  young  Duke  of  Guise. 
The  classes  in  the  University  being  broken  up,  Melville 
entered  into  the  family  of  a  counsellor  of  parliament  as 
tutor  to  his  only  son.  When  he  was  making  rapid  im- 
provement in  his  education,  this  promising  hoy  was  pre- 
maturely cut  off.  Coming  into  his  room  one  day,  Mel- 
ville found  his  little  pupil  bathed  in  blood,  and  mortally 
wounded  by  a  cannon  ball  from  the  camp  of  the  besieg- 
ers, which  had  pierced  the  house.  He  lingered  for  a 
short  time,  during  which  he  employed  the  religious 
instructions  which  he  had  received,  in  comforting  his 
afflicted  parent  ;  and  expired,  in  his  tutor''s  arras,  pro- 
nouncing the  words  in  Greek,  jtcdaaxuXe,  rov  d^Ofiov 
uov  reteXf/a — '  Master^  I  have  finished  my  course."^  Mel- 
ville continued  to  retain  the  most  lively  recollection  of 
this  affecting  scene,  to  which  he  could  never  refer  with- 
out tears."* 

*  M'Cree's  Life  of  Melville,  vol.  i.  p.  29. 


198 

Thy  race  was  run — too  quickly  run — 
As  clouds,  before  the  morning  sun, 
A  moment  gilded  by  his  rays, 
Are  lost  amid  the  solar  blaze  : 
So  life,  the  vapour  life,  from  thee, 
A  moment  hid  eternity  ; 
Then,  mist-like,  melted  quite  away, 
And  left  thee  in  immortal  day. 
Soon  did  thy  star  in  shades  decline  ; 
'Tvvas  but  to  rise  in  happier  spheres, 
Where  fields  of  cloudless  ether  shine, 
And  heaven's  unveiled  light  appears  : 
As  if  the  sun  should  just  arise, 
And  cast  a  gleam  of  golden  light, 
Then  hasten  from  our  turbid  skies, 
And  leave  us  in  eternal  night  ; 
Nor  on  a  world  of  sin  and  wo 
His  pure  celestial  radiance  throw. 

Melville  !  affection  such  as  thine, 
Round  meaner  objects  would  not  twine  : 
But  once  embraced — not  death  could  part 
The  close  attachments  of  thy  heart, 
Resembling,  in  their  strong  control. 
The  giant  firmness  of  thy  soul. 
Then — the  last  glance  ! — that  spoke  to  thee 
When  scarce  the  dying  lip  could  move,     - 
And  that  one  word,  Didascale^ 
Which  fold  his  reverence  and  his  love  t 
And  in  the  last,  the  parting  hour, 
When  death  exerts  his  dreaded  power. 


199 

Called  back  the  fleeting'  moments  past — 

Your  mutual  studies,  mutual  care — 

And,  the'  that  minute  was  the  last, 

Showed  that  nor  time  nor  pain  should  wear 

A  single  cruel  trophy  won 

From  such  a  mind  as  his  oppressed  ; 

But  that  as  sets  the  tropic  sun, 

In  more  than  rising  glory  dressed  ; 

So  the  warm  feelings  of  his  soul 

Would  beam  with  unremitted  flame, 

Till  lifer's  faint  current  ceased  to  roll, 

Till  life's  last  crimson  drop  should  flow, 

In  health  and  sickness,  weal  and  wo. 

Remaining  still  the  same. 

Memory  will  sometimes  cast  a  shade 
Of  sadness  o'er  the  brightest  day  ; 
And  gloom  is  sometimes  gloomier  made, 
When  from  the  past  there  comes  no  ray 
To  pieixe  the  deep  obscure,  and  throw 
A  tint  of  lustre  over  wo  : 
And  yet  her  darker  scenes  possess, 
Sometimes,  a  passing  loveliness. 
Thus  oft  doth  evening's  yellow  light 
Gleam  thro'  the  clouds,  more  mildly  bright 
Than  when  the  glorious  day  declining, 
Through  pure  unsullied  azure  shining. 
Diffuses  radiance  o'er  the  skies, 
And  in  its  own  effulgence  dies  : 
And  so  when  years  had  brou^'ht  relief, 
Or  stolen  the  sharpest  sting  of  grief, 
Remembrance,  Melville,  then  to  thee 


200 

Was  melancholy's  luxury. 
As  through  the  parting  cloud  we  view 
A  little  spot  of  heavenly  blue, 
And  almost  dream  that  we  can  see 
The  splendors  of  eternity. 
How  amid  azure  fields  of  light, 
The  choral  song  may  ever  rise  ; 
While  with  unearthly  splendors  bright, 
Soar  the  fair  children  of  the  skies  : — 
So  when  we  tliink  of  those  we  love, 
Who  since  have  left  their  earthly  home, 
We  see  them  crowned  with  joy  above, 
And  trace  them,  as  their  spirits  roam, 
Now  free  as  light,  from  star  to  star. 
Amid  unfathomed  space  afar. 
And  while  the  fine  illusion  stays, 
A  beam  of  passing  brilliance  plays, 
Pierces  the  clouds  that  roil  below. 
And  spreads  aroimd  a  brighter  glow  ; 
Till  smiles  the  king,  in  terror  drest, 
An  angel  in  a  darker  vest ; 
And  gleaming  on  his  ebon  gate, 
And  on  his  shade-encircled  throne. 
Where  all  the  ministers  of  fate 
The  monarch  of  destruction  own. 
Gilds  the  clouds  that  round  him  rise  ; 
While  faint  and  dim  the  happier  skies 
Of  life  and  peace  are  viewed  between, 
Just  glimmering  through  the  darker  scene. 


201 


FRAGMENTS. 

The  ripple  that  the  zephyr's  breath 

On  ocean's  breast  hath  made, 

Is  gilded  by  the  sun-beam, 

And  darkened  by  the  shade. 

The  rainbow  tints,  athwart  the  sky, 

That  brightly  bloom  awhile,- 

May  now  with  brilliance  glitter, 

Now  wear  a  fainter  smile  ; 

But  soon  the  lovely  vision's  hues 

Entirely  fly  away  ; 

Tho'  brilliant  ev'n  in  fading, 

And  beauteous  in  decay. 


The  eye  to-day  that  glances  bright, 

To-morrow  morn  may  fade  ; 
And  with  it  perish  each  delight, 

That  its  own  beam  had  made. 
The  flower  that  now  is  opening  fair 

May  fall  ere  evening  close, 
And  not  a  leaf  hang  withering  there. 

To  tell  where  bloomed  the  rose. 


17 


202 


ailDNIGHT. 


All  the  world  are  sleeping-, 

Save  the  broken-hearted  weeping, 

And  the  Power  Eternal  keeping 

This  universal  frame. 
The  silent  stars  are  glowing 
O'er  a  world  where  tears  are  flowing, 
And  the  mourner  only  knowing 

How  beauteous  shines  their  flame. 
The  world  are  slumbering  lightly, 
And  dreams  are  flitting  brightly, 
While  God  above  us  nightly 

The  universe  unveils  : 
But  they,  whose  tears  are  streaming, 
View  the  pure  starlight  gleaming 
Through  darkness  clearly  beaming, 
#t  With  light  that  never  fails. 


FRIENDS  OF  INFANCY  AND  YOUTH  MEETING  AFTER  LONO 

SEPARATION. 

Thine  eye  was  bright,  thy  brow  was  fair, 
Grief's  withering  hand  had  not  been  there 
To  mark  the  furrowed  lines  of  care. 

When  last  we  parted. 
Young  Hope's  deceitful  brilliance  shining 
Show'd  many  a  wreath  of  roses  twining 
Round  many  a  bower  for  soft  reclining, 

When  last  we  parted. 


203 

QuenchM  are  the  rays  so  richly  beaming, 
On  all  the  future  prospect  streaming, 
With  life  and  love  and  glory  gleaming, 

When  last  we  parted. 
Yet  tho'  these  fairy  colors  fly, 
And  joy's  young  flow'rets  bloom  to  die  ; 
Tho'  youth,  and  love,  and  hope,  are  by, 

Since  last  we  parted  ; 
Life's  cheerless  tide  may  ebb  away, 
But  hearts  can  never  know  decay, 
And  friendship  is  as  true  to-day, 

As  when  we  parted. 


/ 


204 


HIS  RETURN  TO  COLLEGE,  1820. 

On  his  return  to  College  in  1S20,  he  entered  the  Math- 
ematical and  Moral  Philosophy  Classes,  intending  to 
hear  occasionally  the  Greek  lectures  of  ProfessoF 
Young.  The  exquisite  ability  and  urbanity  ofMrMylne 
quite  captivated  him.  Under  this  learned  professor  he 
was  in  his  very  element.  Subjects,  the  profoundest 
that  have  ever  exercised  human  ingenuity,  and  to  which 
he  had,  almost  from  his  childhood,  paid  uncommon  at- 
tention, were  now  fairly  thrown  before  his  mind  by  a 
master  who  knew  how  to  simplify  the  most  abstruse, 
to  arrange  the  most  confused,  and  to  shed  a  light  over 
the  darkest,  speculations  of  ancient  and  modern  philos- 
ophers. He  found,  in  this  class,  many  gentlemen  of 
most  powerful  and  accomplished  minds — who  witnessed 
his  efforts  that  session,  and  will  bear  testimony  to  his 
intense  labors,  his  accurate  thinking,  his  brilliant  suc- 
cess. From  Mr  Mylne  himself,  he  received,  on  many 
occasions,  the  most  unequivocal  testimonies  of  approba- 
tion— may  it  not  be  added,  of  admiration  also  ?  With 
the  exception  of  one  class-fellow,  he  distanced  all  his 
competitors.  That  gentleman — who  will,  I  trust,  be 
equally  distinguished  i'or  usefulness  in  the  ministry  of 
the  gospel,  as  for  literary  attainments  at  College — was 
accomplished  beyond  many,  was  a  most  diligent  student, 
had  spent  four  years  at  a  respectable  theological  semi- 
nary in  England,  and  was,  at  least,  ten  years  older  than 
my  son — that  gentleman  just  carried  the  first  prize  ;  and 


205 

Wiliiam,  without  the  slightest  question,  took  the  second. 
The  rivalship*  was  too  honorable  to  admit  one  petty 
feeling  of  pride  or  envy-^and  no  young  man  at  the  Uni- 
versity   was   more  disposed  than  Mr to  do  justice 

to  the  intellectual  and  moral  worth  of  his  honorable  an- 
tagonist and  friend. 

On  presenting  the  third  series  of  extracts  from  his 
letters,  a  reference  to  the  remarks  which  introduced 
the  second,  might  seem  sufficient :  but  there  are  here, 
it  must  be  admitted,  many  statements  of  his  success 
which  may  appear  egotistic  to  those  who  do  not  recol- 
lect that  he  wrote  to  a  father  and  an  aunt,  who  wished  to 
know  all  his  concerns,  and  from  whom  he  scarcely  ever 
concealed  a  single  movement  or  thought.  Though  his 
letters  were  read  occasionally  by  a  few  relations  and  in- 
timate friends,  he  was  never  a^vare  that  any  eyes  but 
those  of  the  two  persons  for  whom  they  were  exclu- 
sively intended,  lighted  on  them.  There  was,  there- 
fore, no  occasion  for  reserve  :  and  he  knew  that  such 
communications  afforded  unspeakable  pleasure  to  hearts 
that  derived  their  greatest  share   of  earthly  happiness 

*  In  a  letter  written  in  his  first  session  at  Glasgow  (1818)  he 
says,  "  You  were  mentioning  (he  piinci[)Ie  of  emulation.  No;v 
it  is  a  remarkable  fact,  tliat  heartburnings,  want  of  honor^  &c. 
have  very  little,  if  any,  place  among  the  first  ranks  of  a  class  ; 
while  they  dwell  and  operate  in  the  lower  and  inactive  parts  of 
it.  In  the  one  case,  they  are  carried  off  and  sublimed  by  exer- 
tion ;  whereas,  in  the  other,  they  have  time  to  fix  and  even  grow 
amidst  kindred  stmch  and  stagnation.  I  must  say,  that  1  think 
the  great  honor  and  good  temper  with  which  literary  contests  are 
here  conducted,  are  verj'  much  to  be  admired." 
17* 


206 

Irom  him.  He  has,  it  is  also  admitted,  expressed  him- 
self, with  considerable  freedom,  on  two  authors  of  great 
and  deserved  celebrity.  His  apology  must  be,  that  he 
could  think  for  himself, — that  he  did  think  for  himself — 
without  bowing  to  the  authority  of  even  Reid  and  Stew- 
art, in  matters  of  taste  and  judgment.  If  greater  def- 
erence to  such  writers  may  seem  due  from  so  young  a 
person,  it  should  be  again  remembered,  that  he  wrote 
only  for  us,  who  had  accustomed  him,  from  his  child- 
hood, to  form  and  to  express  opinions  for  himself 


EXTRACTS  OF  LETTERS  WRITTEN  DURING  THE  SESSION. 

Birmingham,  October  20,  1820. 
My  dear  Father  and  Aunt, 

Hitherto  I  have  been  brought  forward  in 
safety  and  comfort — with  no  inconvenience  except  that 
of  an  occasional  wetting,  which  even  the  '■'•  robiir  et  as 
triplex  circa  pectus,^'' — the  co:".t,  great  coat,  and  tartan 
cloak  could  not  entirely  exclude.  After  leaving  you 
at  Blandford,  I  journeyed  forward  towards  Bristol,  with- 
out meeting  any  thing  extraordinarj',  except  the  very 
great  singularity  of  remembering  what  1  was  desired 
to  remember,  at  Shaftesbury.  Here  too  1  met  Mr  L.; 
and,  when  entering  the  town,  beheld  Mr  B.  his  own 
Antomedon,  in  a  cart  superior,  1  dare  say,  to  Hector's 
ciiariot,  although  the  steed  did  not  equal,  I  presume,  the 
oiyAmodeg  Imxoi  of  the  Trojan.  I  do  not  remember  that 
any  thing  else  of  note  occurred  till  I  found  myself  in 
tiio  ancient  city  of  Bristol,  where  Mrs  D.  kindiv  met  me. 


207 

At  a  quarter  before  eight  on  Friday  morning,  I  set 
ofi"  for  this  place — rain  tremendous.  At  length,  just  as 
we  iirst  caught  sight  of  the  Severn,  there  came  a  gleam 
of  sunshine.  What  a  scene  !  That  Paradisaic  valley 
presenting  all  the  tints  of  autumn — the  mellowed  rich- 
ness of  the  light  that  gleamed  through  the  parting- 
clouds — the  distant  river — the  dark  hills  that  rise  be- 
yond it — and  the  black  clouds  which  crowded  round  the 
horizon,  or  were  wildly  scattered  over  the  sky — formed 
altogether  a  landscape,  which,  if  not  intrinsically  more 
beautiful  than  any  I  have  before  seen,  excited,  I  think, 
more  powerful  emoiions  in  my  own  mind.  Exeter  is, 
perhaps,  superior  after  all  ;  but  the  recent  shower,  the 
autumnal  tints,  the  peculiarity  of  the  light,  and  above 
all,  the  refreshing  and  exhilirating  effect  which  a  cessa- 
tion of  rain  produced  on  the  exposed  traveller,  concur- 
red to  render  the  scene  deliorhtful. 

We  passed  through  Gloucester,  Tewkesbury,  Worces- 
ter. At  Tewkesbury,  I  saw  the  tield  of  carnage  where 
the  two  roses  fought.  My  military  skill  was  so  great, 
that,  on  the  first  glance  over  the  ground,  I  discovered 
the  position  of  the  victorious  party,  from  the  superior 
advantages  which  I  perceived  it  to  possess.  Yet  did 
the  vanquished  butcher  some  poor  nobleman  for  desert- 
ing his  post — attributing  the  disaster  to  him,  instead  of 
ascribing  it  to  their  own  stupidity  for  fighting  on  such 
disadvantageous  ground.  Thus  did  1  survey  the  field 
where  passions  of  unmingled  malignancy  produced  the 
shock  of  armies.  Yet  after  this,  1  am  ashamed  to  say, 
that  I  forgot  to  inquire  after  the  situation  of  another 
battle — the   altar  where  another  libation  of  blood  was 


208 

poured  out— as  an  offering,  however,  not  to  paltry  pre- 
judices, or  royal  animosity,  but  to  the  spirit  of  offended 
freedom^  to  the  wrath  of  an  insulted  people.  I  did  not 
see  the  site  of  the  battle  of  Worcester. 


Glasgow,  Nov.  1820. 

Our  classes  have  novv  commenced,  much  to 
my  contentment ;  for  I  really  begin  to  want  the  excite- 
ment of  College,  since  1  have  lost  the  retirement  of 
home.  Mr  Mylne  appears  to  me  an  uncommonly  pleas- 
ant lecturer — conversational,  easy,  and  divested  of  all 
pomp  whatever.  A  less  pretending  man  I  have  rarely 
seen.  We  are  all  high  busy  at  the  election,  I  intend 
to  collect  all  the  placards  published  on  the  subject,  and 
bring  them  home  as  curiosities.  The  mathematical 
class  does  not  open  till  next  Monday  ;  so  that  I  am  still 
more  than  sufficiently  idle  ;  yet  by  the  help  of  election 
business,  canvassing,  placards,  &c.  1  contrive  to  keep 
myself  tolerably  busy.  Time  is  like  the  manna  :  when 
Tve  most  of  it,  I  have  little  enough  to  do  my  business 
in  :  and  when  I'm  pinched  for  it,  1  almost  always  contrive 
to  get  my  business  done  nevertheless.  I  tind  my  note- 
book answer  admirably  well.  1  am  able  to  take  a  distinct 
and  fair  note  of  the  lecture,  currente  caltiino.  This  was 
my  object ;  and  1  hope  thus  to  avoid  the  necessity  of 
that  much  copying,  which  is,  like  "  much  study,  a  weari- 
ness of  the  flesh." 


209 


Nov.  1820. 


The  pride  of  our  College,  poor  Professor 
Young,  has  been  suddenly  called  off  to  that  long  home, 
"where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  wea- 
ry are  at  rest."  The  visitation  was  avvfuUy  unexpect- 
ed. He  went,  accompanied  by  his  servant,  to  Hutton's 
Hotel,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  take  the  warm  bath. 
His  servant  left  him  to  bathe  ;  but  finding  that  the  pro- 
fessor did  not  ring  or  call  so  soon  as  asual,  he  ventured 
to  enter  the  room.  His  master  was  sitting  in  the  water 
in  his  usual  semi-recumbent  posture — his  features  un- 
altered— his  position  undisturbed.  The  servant  con- 
cluded that  his  master  had  fallen  asleep,  and  endeavour- 
ed to  awaken  him  ;  but  it  was  all  over  ;  the  immortal 
spirit  had  taken  her  flight.  The  fact,  when  generally 
known  on  Sunday  morning,  produced  a  universal  sensa- 
tion ;  and,  of  course,  a  deep  emotion  among  the  mem- 
ber* of  faculty  and  the  students. 


December,  1820. 

The  more  one  sees  of  this  life — many 
as  its  joys  are  ;  and  these,  with  one  so  favourably  and 
mercifully  situated  as  myself,  are  indeed  many — yet  the 
more  is  one  struck  with  the  frequent  recurrence  of  ca- 
lamity. Your  narrow  escape  fills  me,  I  hope,  with  grat- 
itude— certainly,  with  joy,  mixed  with  no  small  degree 
of  awe.  How  near  may  I  have  been  to  losing  my  best 
earthly  friend  !     With  how  loose  a  hand  should  we  hold 


210 

all  our  mercies,  when  the  dearest  of  them  may  be  snatch- 
ed away  by  a  single  breath  !  1  hope  and  pray  that  no  ill 
effect  may  still  ensue. 

Professor  Mylne  has  constantly  acted  with  the  dig- 
nity of  a  gentleman,  and  the  kindness  of  a  friend.  He 
is  altogether  one  of  the  most  fascinating  men  I  ever  met 
with.  You  know  1  don't  meet  many  fascinating  people. 
On  Friday  last  I  dined  with  him.  He  has  been  pleased 
all  along  to  honor  me  with  the  most  marked  attention. 
I  have  not  yet  had  any  opportunity  of  making  an  ap- 
pearance in  the  class.  His  lectures  are  original,  and  in- 
genious in  the  highest  degree.  He  is,  at  present,  only 
the  metaphysician  ;  and  he  has  hitherto  carried  my  be- 
lief, on  all  important  points,  along  with  him.  He  has 
not  yet  arrived  at  Morals.  He  has  been  on  the  subject 
of  passion,  desire,  &c. 

He  has  to-day  been  lecturing  on  infinite  divisibility 
— very  ingenious  and  clever;  but,  of  course,  leaving 
the  matter  nearly  as  mysterious  as  he  found  it.  Hi*  no- 
tions about  our  ideas  of  externity  are  admirable,  as  far 
as  I  can  judge.  He  has  nothing  to  do  with  "  Common 
Sense  ;"  and  I  am  very  glad  of  it  ;  as  1  confess  that  this 
appendiige  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  most  awkward 
excrescence  on  the  science  of  the  human  mind.  You 
must  inform  aunt,  that  I  don't  mean  our  common  sense 
— vulgar  common  sense  ;  but  what  I  believe  to  be  the 
offspring  of  its  direct  opposite.  Pkilosophical  Common 
Sense^  you  will  tell  her,  is  an  airy,  Himsy,  meretricious 
sort  of  being,  totally  unlike  the  grave  and  sober  house- 
wife, whose  name  she  has  chosen  to  assume. 

The  chapter  of  Butler  on  "  revvaros  and  punish- 


211 

MENTS,"  is  beautiful — nay,  I  had  almost  called  it,  what 
it  does  not  even  profess  to  be,  conclusive.  That  on 
the  "  MORAL  government"  is  ingenious,  is  master!}',  but 
not,  1  think,  quite  so  satisfactory  as  the  other.  This 
may  arise  from  his  taking,  or  appearing  sometimes  to 
take,  for  granted,  the  existence  of  conscience  as  a  dis- 
tinct power  of  the  human  mind  ;  and  arguing  on  this, 
or  some  similar  hypothesis.  I  have  read  it  cursorily — 
and  may  be — probably  am — mistaken.  1  only  state  to 
you  the  general  impression  on  my  own  mind.  I  admire 
him  on  "  necessity" — its  practical  influence,  pol.  I.  g.  vi. 
The  analogy  is  certainly  strong. 

I  have  thought  of  a  thousand  excuses  for  the  ego- 
tism 1  am  about  to  display.  However,  I  have  come  to 
the  determination  of  confessing  my  vanity,  and  throwing 
myself  on  your  mercj',  in  confidence  of  obtaining  your 
forgiveness  for  it.  It  would  be  affectation  in  me  to  say, 
that  I  am  not  pleased  with  being  thought  well  of  by 
those  whom  I  highly  esteem  or  admire  ;  and  almost 
worse  than  affectation,  if,  after  the  opinion  I  have  ex- 
pressed of  Mr.  Mylne,  I  should  deny  that  1  am  glad  he 
thinks  well  of  me.  He  asserted,  then,  in  his  lectures, 
"  that  the  intensity  and  lii^eliness  of  our  sensations  are  di- 
minished by  the  frequency  of  their  repetition  or  the  length  of 
their  continuance^  This  he  stated  as  an  undoubted  fact, 
and  attributed  it  to  a  law  of  sensation.  1  wrote  a  vol- 
untar}',  entitled,  "  some  remarks  on  the  alleged  fact," 
vtc.  This  fortunately  met  with  Mr.  M's  high  approba- 
tion. He  characterized  it  as  "  an  acute  and  ingenious 
metaphysical  essay."  He  said,  my  views  were  plausi- 
ble, and  probably  just ;  and,  tinally,  paid  me  the  compli- 


212 

ment  of  saying,  that  although  his  mind  had  been  made 
up  on  the  question,  he  should  now  reconsider  the  sub- 
ject. 

He  is  now  attacking  Dr.  Reid's  Insdncts^totis  viribus^ 
and,  I  think,  with  the  most  entire  success.  The  old 
Doctor  seems  to  have  had  the  art  of  compiling  and  ex- 
periimnting^  without  almost  any  notion  of  drawing  a  gen- 
eral inference.  No  comprehensiveness  of  mind.  This 
would  be  treason  here,  and,  indeed,  any  where  else,  ex- 
cept in  a  private  letter.  Dr.  Reid  is  one  of  those  sort 
of  people,  who  may  be  denominated  intellectual  Isles  of 
Wight — good — cultivated — but  extravagantly  lauded — 
till  to  call  them  only  fertile — and  well-farmed  spots — is 
sufficient  to  forfeit,  for  life,  a  man's  character  for  delica- 
cy and  accuracy  of  perception. 


January,  1821. 

Situated  as  I  am  here — with  so  much 
to  create  comfort  and  excite  thankfulness, — discontent 
would  argue  the  possession  of  a  bad  head  and  a  worse 
lieart.  Still  there  are  certain  circumstances,  under 
which  we  experience  a  good  deal  of  happiness,  and  a 
good  deal  of  contentment,  without  losing  the  half  mel- 
ancholy pleasures  of  recollections,  which  refine,  if  they 
do  not  exhilirate  ;  and  of  anticipation,  which,  if  some- 
times delusive,  are  never  unwelcome,  and  rarely  injuri- 
ous. Now  I  confess  that  I  have  about  me  just  so  much 
of  that  peculiar  affection  for  kindred  and  country,  which 
910W  seems  the  characteristic  of  an  age  long  since  gone 


213 

by — as  if  I  had  been  born  before  America  and  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope*  had  come  into  known  existence.  Born 
and  brought  up  with  these  feeling*,  I  find  myself  in  a  sit- 
uation by  no  means  calculated  to  dimmish  their  arden- 
cy. Removed  into  a  country  which  has  just  too  little 
of  that  indescribable  something,  which  is  the  character- 
istic of  merry  England — to  allow  me  to  imagine  that  I 
am  still  in  my  native  land — and  exiled  for  a  space  of 
time  such  as  to  make  enjoyment  keener,  rather  than  to 
render  the  desire  of  that  enjoyment  less  ardent — you 
may  easily  conceive,  that  even  so  unimaginative  a  being 
as  W.  F.  D.  tinds  enough  on  which  his  imagination  may 
work,  without  his  ever  suffering  those  real  inconve- 
niences, which  tend  to  shiver  the  frost-work  she  has 
raised. 

You  can  easily  conceive  what  approbation  it  is  that 
I  value  most  highly — because,  however  partial  may  be 
the  verdict  of  those  whose  good  opinion  I  have  gained, 
— it  is,  nevertheless,  the  great  object,  to  secure  which 
all  my  efforts  are  intended.  Whatever  your  approba- 
tion, however,  may  be,  I  trust  /  do  not,  and  shall  not  for- 
get to  whom,  under  God,  and  in  connexion  with  one 
who  is  now  placed  far  above  the  objects  of  earthly  so- 
licitude, I  owe  all  the  little  good  of  which  I  om,  or  marj 
6e,  in  possession. 

*   Here  is  an  allusion  to  the  confemplated  removal  of  a  familj, 
ill  tlie  circle  of  our  friends,  to  one  of  these  places. 

18 


2U 


Feb.  1821. 

One  object  has,  of  course,  lately  employ- 
ed your  solicitude  and  your  attentions ;  and  although  we 
have,  I  think,  no  reason  to  doubt  that  what  is  to  us  a 
bereavement,  was  to  our  beloved  relative  a  blessing  ; 
it  is  impossible  for  the  wisest  dictates  of  the  most  en- 
lightened reason,  directed  by  the  purer  and  higher  dis- 
coveries which  we  owe  to  divine  revelation — to  calm 
the  emotions  which  the  loss  of  those  we  love  occasions 
— elTectually  to  say,  "  Peace,  be  still,"  to  the  conflict- 
ing feelings  of  nature — or  to  answer,  in  a  way  satisfac- 
tory to  the  troubled  spirit,  all  those  questions  with  which 
grief,  unrestrained  by  high  and  holy  principle,  would  as- 
sail the  unsullied  rectitude  and  purity  of  Him,  who, 
while  he  is  the  fountain  of  our  happiness,  is,  for  reasons 
equally  wise,  and,  indeed,  equally  benevolent,  the  au- 
thor of  our  sorrows.  I  have  often  thought  that  if  we 
could,  at  one  glance,  take  in  all  the  various  relations  of 
the  different  parts  of  universal  nature — could  we  pene- 
trate futurity — go  back  into  the  unfathomable  abyss  of 
the  past — and  examine  the  complicated  machinery  of 
the  divine  government — we  should  be  able  to  perceive 
how,  by  a  sort  of  celestial  alchemy,  happiness  is,  in 
every  case,  educed  from  misery — so  that  there  is  not  a 
pang  of  suffering  humanity — but  tends  to  illustrate  the 
one  great  principle,  that  "God  is  love."  All  the  attri- 
butes of  Deity  appear  to  me  so  many  modifications,  and 
all  his  works  so  many  emanations  of  infinite,  eternal  be- 
nevolence, connected  with  infinite  wisdom.     Those  who 


215 

are,  however,  deeply  afflicted,  want  more  tlian  the  gen- 
erals,— or  what  we  may  call,  the  philosophy  of  religion 
— and  that  more  intimate  acquaintance  is,  I  trust,  pos- 
sessed, and  its  comforts  experienced  hy  my  dear  cousin. 
As  for  the  dear  children — the  same  religion  which  j)oints 
out  a  hereafter,  and  forbids  to  christians  the  mournful 
"  Vale,"  which  is  the  appropriate  mark  only  of  an  eter- 
nal separation — informs  us  that  He  wlio  is  higher  than 
the  highest,  but  who  knows  our  infirmities,  and  remem- 
bers that  we  are  hut  dust — takes  a  paternal  interest  in 
the  orphan,  and  hears  the  cry  of  those  who  are  depriv- 
ed of  their  natural  protectors.  Give  my  best  and  kind- 
est love  to  the  chief  mourner.  Condolence,  formal  con- 
dolence, at  least,  is  not  the  balsam  that  must  heal  the 
wound  divine  wisdom  inflicts.  That  I  loved  the  deceas- 
ed, you  all  know,  and  he  knows.  May  we  all  meet  her, 
where  separation  is  as  impossible  as  union  is  delightful ; 
and  union  as  delightful  as  the  favouring  smiles  of  Al- 
mighty love  can  make  it !  Remember  me  most  aflfec- 
tionately  to  the  dear  children.  May  they  belong  to  the 
family  of  God,  an  almighty,  unchanging,  never-dying 
protector! 


March,  1821. 

Belikve  me,  that  if  my  present  state  of 
health  be  mercifully  continued  to  me,  I  shall  return  as 
complete  an  Adonis  as  when  1  left  you.  That  alchem- 
ical process,*  which  last  year  threw  a  golden  tint  over 

*     In  the  previous  spring,  he  had  had  a  slight  bilious  affection . 


216 

mj  visage,  has  not  yet  commenced  ;  nor  do  I  see  the 
slightest  probability  of  its  approach.  1  begin  to  have 
quite  the  spring  feelings  ;  and  they  are,  I  assure  you, 
b}'  no  means  unpleasant.  I  am  now  writing  (six  o'clock, 
p.  m.)  without  a  candle ;  and  have  just  returned  from 
my  first  afternoon  walk.  1  hope  you  wont  blame  me 
for  a  luxury  so  destructive  of  time  ; — since  it  was  indulg- 
ed in,  as  a  sort  of  Gaudeamus,  (to  use  the  College  phrase) 
having  finished  Blackstone  today.  I  rather  think  that  I 
shall  not  do  much  in  the  reading  way  for  the  rest  of 
this  week;  but  rather  attack  D.  Stewart,  at  all  events, 
next  Monday,  if  not  before. 

I  have  had  an  amazing  deal  to  be  thankful  for  dur- 
ing this  winter — continued  health — general  enjoyment 
—and  the  kindness  of  friends.  Nor  is  it  an  inconsidera- 
ble blessing,  in  my  opinion,  that  Mr. has  never 

thwarted  me  at  all,  nor  clashed  with  me  in  one  particu- 
lar. He  is,  of  course,  more  expensive  than  I  am — as, 
indeed,  he  ought  to  be — but  he  draws  me  into  no  ex- 
penses whatever. 

I  have  just  finished  the  first  poetical — that  is,  of 
course,  rythmical— effusion,  in  which  I  have  this  winter 
indulged.  The  occasion  is  this:  a  friend  of  mine  (who 
is,  by  the  by,  a  sort  of  favourite  pupil  of  Dr.  Butler,  of 
Shrewsbury)  gave  in  a  poetical  essay  of  considerable 
merit,  "  on  the  diversit}'^  of  human  character."  Mr. 
Mylne  then  expressed  a  readiness  to  receive  other  at- 
tempts of  the  same  kind.  This  determined  me  to  try 
my  fortune.  So  I  yesterday  began,  and  have  now  com- 
pleted, an  essay  on  the  providence  of  God.     The  things 


217 

15,  of  course,  a  complete  experiment,  and  I  am  doubtful 
how  it  will  go  down. 

Are  you  not  electrified  with  indignation  at  Mr. 
Brougham's  bill?  I  think  '  Dissent  expects  every  man 
to  do  his  duty.'  Excited,  we  are  powerful :  and  '  a  long 
pull,  a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  all  together,'  may,  per- 
haps, hint  to  the  bishops  (whona  he  seeks  to  propitiate) 
that  the  daj'  of  encroachment  is  passed.  You  cannot  be 
*  *  *  and,  therefore,  will  not  suspect  me  of  flattery, 
when  I  say,  that  a  severe  letter,  either  to  the  dissent- 
ers— to  Brougham — or  to  the  Edinburgh  Reviewers — 
from  your  pen,  would  be  not,  I  think,  an  unsaleable, 
and  certainly,  a  most  useful  publication.  It  would  tear 
off  the  delusive  bandage,  which  too  many  dissenters 
still  suffer  to  rest  on  their  eyes,  and  dissipate  the  film, 
which  hides  their  real  danger.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Peel 
has  been  imprudent  enough  to  let  the  long-concealed 
cat  out  of  the  bag.  it  is,  then,  the  repeal  of  the  test 
and  corporation  acts — the  emancipation  of  protestants, 
not  of  catholics,  they  dread!  We  knew  it;  but  we  did 
not  think  they  would  have  had  the  absurdity  and  effront- 
ery to  proclaim  so  disgraceful  a  truth.  I  am  for  the 
dissenters  making  a  grand  movement  just  now.  This 
is  not  a  time  when  the  voice  of  half  a  million  of  people 
petitioning  for  the  repeal  of  measures,  which  are  not 
certainly  necessary  to  the  existence  of  administration — - 
can  be  slightly  disregarded.  You  see  Scotland  has  not 
cooled  my  dissenterism. 

18* 


218 


March,  1821. 

I  HAVE  just  finished  Stewart's  "  Philoso- 
phy of  the  Human  Mind."  I  have  derived  immense 
pleasure  from  his  second  volume,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  go  through  him  so  deliberately  as  I  could  have  wish- 
ed :  still,  I  have  done  it  with  close  attention,  and  have 
generally,  I  think,  apprehended  him.  You  will  be  rath- 
er shocked  to  hear  me  say,  that  1  have  met  with  much 
more  acute  thinkers  and  close  reasoners.  His  last  chap- 
ter, "  on  final  causes  in  metaphysical  enquiries,"  where 
he  adverts  to  the  utility-scheme,  is  really  as  shallow  a 
piece  of  boyish  misapprehension  and  mis-statement  as  I 
have  read  for  a  long  time.  His  analysis  does  not  go 
down  at  all,  after  Mr.  Mylne's  clear,  simple,  pointed 
statements.  Mr.  Mylne's  arguments  are  all  collected, 
like  the  rays  of  the  sun  by  a  burning  glass.  You  only 
see  one  luminous  point ;  but  that  point  is  all-penetrating. 
Stewart's  are  the  same  rays  spread  over  a  beautiful  gar- 
den. Every  thing  they  fail  on  is  bright,  and  glowing, 
and  elegant ;  and  the  whole  scene  gay  almost  to  en- 
chantment— but  that  is  all.  No  substances  are  decom- 
posed— no  compounds  analysed — no  secrets  penetrated. 
This  is,  at  least,  my  impression  on  the  point. 

I  finish  this  week  with  a  little  sort  of  abstract  of  lec- 
tures; It  was  published  by  Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  a  little 
before  his  death.  It  is  not  the  large  work,  understand  : 
it  is  only  a  kind  of  synopsis,  from  which  I  hope  to  get  a 
notion  of  his  system,  which  is,  I  hear,  extremely  ele- 
gant.    This  book  I   hope  to  have  finished  by  Saturday. 


219 

Then  I  shall  proceed  to  John  Locke  ;  or  to  a  second 
perusal  of  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  for  the  purpose 
of  picking  up  the  information  that  may  have  escaped 
me — of  refreshing  my  memory,  and  of  deepening,  and 
thus  perpetuating,  impressions  which  would  otherwise 
gradually  yield  to  newer  ideas,  till  at  length  the  old 
traces  completely  vanish.  I  flatter  myself,  that  if  1  have 
no  other  qualification  for  a  lawyer,  I  have,  at  least,  a 
tolerable  share  of  dogged  application.  For  this  I  shall 
have  call  enough  this  summer  ;  for  1  am  determined  to 
set  myself  at  mathematics,  the  which  I  do  from  my 
soul  abhor.  But  I  see  the  necessity  of  attending  to 
them  ;  and  attend  1  xsiill,  whether  I  succeed  or  not. 

Before  I  finally  close,  I  must  tell  you,  I  have  begun 
that  synopsis  of  Brown's.  I  am  quite  delighted  with  it 
hitherto.  He  has,  I  think,  twice  Stewart's  mind.  His 
lectures  at  length  are  lately  published.  If  you  can  get 
them  into  the  book  society,  they  will  be  a  great  acqui- 
sition to  such  metaphysical  people,  at  least,  as  you  and 
1  are.  Should  I  be  spared  to  return,  I  promise  myself 
great  pleasure  in  going  over  Mr.  Mylne's  course,  from 
my  notes,  to  you  and  my  aunt — reading,  of  course,  as  I 
proceed,  some  of  the  exercises,  which  have  been  writ- 
ten by  W.  F.  D.  This  will  keep  up  ray  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Mylne's  theory,  and  with  metaphysics  in  gen- 
eral ;  and  will  give  you  an  insight  into  the  doctrines 
taught  here. 


220 


April,  1821. 


So  it  is  all  over  with  the  poor  Neapohtans  !  They 
sadly  want  a  little  British  steadiness.  However  the 
sceptered  idiots  of  the  Continent,  who  are  now  chuckling 
over  tlie  mischief  they  have  done,  will  enjoy  but  a  tran- 
sitory triumph.  One  is  certainly  apt  to  be  impatient  of 
delay,  and  sorry,  to  see  freedom  repressed,  though  it 
be  for  a  moment  only.  Still  I  look  forward  with  per- 
fect confidence.  Mankind  are  enlightened,  will  be  hap- 
py, and  must  be  free.  This  great  crisis  despotism  may 
check  ;  and  anarchy,  which  the  measures  of  that  des- 
potism, by  a  natural  reaction,  produce,  may  delay.  But 
leagues,  and  invasions,  and  arbitrary  enactments,  and 
military  proscriptions,  are  wholly  unable  ultimately  to 
prevent  the  united  triumph  of  freedom,  of  knowledge, 
and  of  virtue.  You  may  tie  down — you  may  nail  down 
— you  may  screw  down — the  safety-valve, — and  the  idi- 
ot, who  chooses  to  try  the  experiment,  may  applaud  his 
own  sagacity  ;  and  dream  that  for  him  it  was  reserved 
to  confine  the  hitherto  irrepressible  fluid — till  that  fluid 
burst  through  every  obstacle;  and  till  he,  who  had  at- 
tempted to  impose  on  it  so  unnatural  a  restraint,  is  in- 
volved in  a  calamity  of  his  own  creation. 


221 


ESSAYS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  MORAL  PHILOSOPHY 

CLASS. 

During  this  session,  he  wrote  Essays,  either  enjoined  by 
the  professor,  or  as  vohintaries,  on  the  following  sub- 
jects : — Moral  Philosophy  ;  Reason  ;  Memory  ;  Atten- 
tion ;  Conception  ;  Instinct  ;  ClassiQcation  of  the  Pas- 
sions ;  Division  of  the  Duties  ;  Virtue  ;  Fortitude  ; 
Habit ;  Conduct  of  Study  through  the  Vacation  ;  Causes 
of  Error,  as  enumerated  in  Aphorisms  78  and  93  inclu- 
sive, j\ovu7u  O.ganuin,  Lib.  pr,;  on  Sympathy  as  a 
spring  of  action  distinct  from  self-love  ;  Some  Remarks 
suggested  by  the  alleged  fact,  that  the  liveliness  and 
intensity  of  our  sensations  are  diminished  by  the  fre- 
quency of  their  repetition  ;  Some  Remarks  suggested 
by  an  Essay  on  Attention,  by  Edmund  Clark  ;  Necessi- 
ty ;  on  the  question,  Is  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  recon- 
cileable  with  that  of  human  accountableness  ?  Imma- 
teriality of  the  soul  ;  Immortality  of  the  human  soul  ; 
Providence.  It  is  not  easj'  to  determine  on  a  proper 
selection  ;  but  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  offering  to  the 
reader  a  ^qw  of  the  Essays. 


VIRTUE. 

Virtue  must  have  some  essential  quality  ;  and  with- 
out this  quality,  it  cannot  be  conceived  to  exist.  The 
contrary  assertion  appears  to  involve  a  contradiction. 


222 

If  virtue  consist — sometimes  in  benevolence,  sometimes 
in  prudence,  sometimes  in  a  sense  of  propriety,  some- 
times in  the  good  tendencj'^  of  the  principle  whence  it 
springs — then  must  we  come  to  one  of  two  conclusions  : 
either,  in  the  first  place,  that  benevolence,  prudence, 
and  utility,  are  the  same  thing  ;  or  that  the  one  word 
Virtue  is  used  with  a  variety  of  different  significations  ; 
and  is,  in  fact,  little  more  than  an  ill-defined  term,  which 
may  mean  any  thing,  or  nothing,  according  to  the  will 
of  the  individual  by  whom  it  is  used. 

That  physical  philosopher  would  be  justly  condem- 
ned, who  should  attribute  electrical  and  magnetic  at- 
traction to  the  general  law  of  gravitation  ;  because,  al- 
though it  is  possible  that  these  different  phenomena  may 
have  all  a  similar  origin  ;  yet,  as  their  proximate  causes 
are  clearly  distinguished  from  each  other,  and  as  we 
are  unable  to  go  beyond  the  proximate  causes,  it  would 
be  unphilosophical  to  anticipate  the  possible  progress 
of  discovery,  by  arranging  under  the  same  head  things 
really  so  different.  If  a  classification  so  improper  had 
already  obtained,  it  would  be  the  duty  of  a  truly  philo- 
sophical inquirer  to  do  all  ia  his  power,  by  introducing 
a  more  correct  nomenclature,  to  remedy  the  inconsisten- 
cy. Now  the  analogy  between  the  physical  and  the 
moral  inquirer  seems  to  me,  in  this  case,  to  be  perfect. 
If  the  latter  find  that  (he  word  virtue  is  used  to  desig- 
nate things  essentially  different  from  each  other — that 
the  quality  which  recommends  an  action  to  our  moral 
approbation — in  other  words,  the  quality  which  renders 
an  action  virtuous, — is,  in  some  cases,  benevolence  ;  in 
others,  propriety  ;    in  others  again,  utility — then  is  he 


223 

just  as  much  bouud  to  infringe  on  ancient  usage,  and  to 
distinguish,  by  a  more  accurate  classification,  the  actions 
of  which  we  approve  on  account  of  their  benevolence, 
from  those  of  which  we  approve  on  account  of  their 
propriety,  as  the  ph3'sician  is,  to  arrange  under  differ- 
ent heads  those  phenomena  of  attraction,  which  arise 
from  gravitation,  and  those  which  are  produced  by  mag- 
netism or  electricity.  But  if  the  moralist,  on  a  still 
further  inquiry,  find  that  propriety,  benevolence,  prudence, 
as  foundations  of  moral  obligation,  are  all  of  them  re- 
solvable into  utility — then  is  it  just  as  much  his  duty, 
again  to  reduce  all  virtuous  actions  to  the  same  catego- 
ry, as  it  would  be  the  duty  of  the  physical  philosopher 
to  class  together,  as  the  effects  of  a  common  cause,  all 
the  phenomena  of  attraction  ;  provided  it  should  turn 
out  that  magnetism,  electricity,  and  gravitation,  are  all 
of  them  ascribable  to  one  simple  but  all-pervading  and 
ever  operating  principle.  1  could  wish  that  the  limits 
of  this  exercise  allowed  a  more  extended  discussion  ; 
in  which  case,  I  should  endeavour  to  show  the  similarity 
of  principle  which  exists  in  relation  to  all  those  specu- 
lations, which  occupy  the  most  prominent  place  among 
the  theories  of  virtue.  At  present,  however,  my  object 
will  be  to  identify  the  system  of  propriety  with  that  of 
expediency. 

Let  us  suppose,  for  a  moment,  propriety  and  expedi- 
ency to  be  completely  at  variance  ; — in  other  words,  let 
us  suppose  it  to  be  proper  for  every  being,  whatever 
may  be  his  rank  in  the  scale  of  existence,  to  endure 
unmixed  and  eternal  misery.  Now,  who  is  there  to 
whom  this  supposition  does  not  appear  an  infinite  ab- 


224 

surdity  ?  Who  is  able  to  conceive  of  a  state  orthino:s 
in  which  evil — to  each  individual  irremediable  and  un- 
^productive  of  good  in  any  part  of  the  universal  system 
— should  be  consistent  with  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  ? 
I  do  not  anticipate  here  an  objection,  1  believe,  that 
every  man  will  be  ready  to  pronounce  the  very  suppo- 
sition an  INFINITE  ABSURDITY.  Now,  then,  let  me  ask, 
whether  the  same  absurdity  does  not,  in  a  certain  de- 
gree, attach  itself  to  any  system  which  supposes  the 
eternal  fitness  of  things  to  be  in  any  way  chargeable 
with  the  production  of  misery,  or  the  diminution  of  hap- 
hiness.  I  do  not  mean  that  the  existence  of  misery  is 
inconsistent  with  propriety — but  that  universal  order 
cannot  be  productive  of  a  quantity  of  happiness  smaller 
than  would  be  the  consequence  of  the  reverse  :  be- 
cause that  system,  which  is  infinitely  proper,  must  be, 
one  would  suppose,  infinitely  good  ;  and  how  can  we 
conceive  of  that,  as  infinitely  good,  which  is  less  condu- 
cive to  the  production  of  happiness  than  is  some  other 
thing  of  the  same  kind  with  itself? 

For  instance — it  is  consistent  with  the  relations  and , 
fitness  of  things,  that  the  planets  move  in  their  orbits  of 
peace  and  glory — and  wholly  inconsistent  with  these  re- 
lations, that  the  heavenly  bodies  be  propelled  against 
each  other,  with  such  violence  as  to  produce  universal 
tumult.  But,  suppose,  for  a  moment,  (how  wild  soever 
the  supposition  may  appear)  that  the  universe  were 
repeopled  with  creatures,  so  constituted  as  to  derive 
their  satisfaction,  and  comfort,  if  not  their  support,  from 
the  tumult  of  conflicting  systems,  and  from  what  we 
should,   under  existing  circumstances,   call  the  ruin  of 


225 

the  universe.  Should  we  not,  in  this  case,  contemplate, 
with  exactly  those  feeUngs  of  satisfaction,  that  proprie- 
ty is  calculated  to  produce  the  eccentric  movennents  of 
clashing  worlds  ?  Even  in  this  case,  I  admit  that  there 
is  the  adaptation  of  means  to  the  end  in  view  ;  and  this 
adaptation  we  may,  if  we  please,  call  propriety  :  but 
as  the  end  in  view  is  the  production  of  happiness,  that 
very  propriety  or  adaptation  of  which  we  approve,  is 
only  utility  with  a  less  intelligible  name. 

The  question  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  this:  Do 
we  approve  of  propriety,  without  any  regard  to  utility  ; 
— in  other  words,  do  we  approve  of  the  adaptation  of 
means  to  ends,  where  those  ends  are  not  themselves 
such  as  a  wise  and  benevolent  being  would  propose  to 
himself?  I  admit  that  we  sometimes  admire  this  adapta- 
tion, as  a  manifestation  of  wisdom  :  but  then  as  wis- 
dom is,  in  its  general  tendency,  highly  beneficial,  the 
approbation  it  is  calculated  to  excite  may  be  accounted 
for  on  the  principle  for  which  we  are  contending,  viz. 
THAT  OF  EXPEDIENCY.  If,  howcvep,  wc  take  away  that 
pleasure  which  arises  from  a  perception  of  excellence 
in  the  object,  and  that  which  is  produced  by  the  other 
cause  to  which  1  have  just  referred — I  cannot  imagine 
to  what  sentiment  of  deligiil,  the  perception  of  adapta- 
tion, or  propriety,  would  give  rise. 

If,  however,  the  advocates  of  propriety  insist  on  the 
existence  of  an  absolute  fitness,  differing  from  that 
kind  of  adaptation,  which  consists  in  the  tendency  of 
means  to  produce  a  certain  end  ; — then  do  1  feel  myself 
entitled  to  ask,  what  this  moral  fitness  is  ? — and  then — 
what  renders  it  so  desirable,  or  so  obligatory  ?  If  I  am 
19 


226 

pointed  to  the  duties  of  piety,  as  examples  of  that  for 
which  I  am  seeking — as  consequences  of  a  rehition  and 
specimens  of  an  obligation,  of  which  I  have  questioned 
the  existence — I  am  necessitated  to  confess,  that  even 
in  these  duties  I  see  an  infinite  propriety,  only  because 
I  find  in  them  a  tendency  to  produce  the  most  extensive 
benefits. 

Before  I  proceed  with  this  inquiry,  I  would  just  re- 
mark,   that,    on   whatever  principle  our   reasonings   in 
other  respects   proceed — one   thing    must   be  admitted, 
viz.  that  no  action  is  either  virtuous  or  vicious,  except 
as  the  manifestation  of  a  principle.     When,  therefore,  I 
say,  that  I   approve    of  a  virtuous  action,  on  account  of 
its  beneficial  tendency,  I  do,  in  fact,  say,  that  I  approve 
of  it,  because  the  principles  from  which  it  springs  would, 
if  generally   diffused,   and  carried  out  into  action,  pro- 
duce universal  happiness.     Or  taking  the  other  theory, 
when  I   say,   that  1  approve  of  an  action,  because  it  is 
proper;    I   do,   in  fact,  assert,  that  I   approve   of  that 
sense  of  propriety  which   would,  if  generally   diffused, 
and   carried   out  into   action,  produce   universal  order. 
Otherwise,   I   should  be  giving  moral  approbation  to  an 
action  which,  apart  from  an  intelligent  agent,  is  a  mere 
abstraction  ;  not  possessing,   evidently,  the   powers  of 
consciousness,  volition,  judgment,  &c. 

The  rule  which  has  just  been  stated  is  evidently  cor- 
rect with  regard  to  the  duties  of  piety  ;  since  these  du- 
ties, unlike  some  apparently  virtuous  actions,  which  are 
beneficial  independently  of  the  principle  whence  they 
spring — have  really  scarcely  any  intrinsic  value.  It  is  a 
remark  of  Dr  Paley's,  that  a  virtue  is  to  be  estimated. 


227 

according-  to  the  effect  which  would  result  from  its  ex- 
emplification in  the  conduct  of  every  intelligent  being, 
who  is  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  the  principle  from 
which  it  springs.  The  duties  of  piety,  then,  are  only 
manifestations  of  a  principle,  which  is  directly  and  indi- 
rectly productive  of  effects  the  most  various,  and  the 
most  important.      The   principle   to   which   I  refer,   is 

ATTACFIMENT  AND  A  CONSEQUENT  DESIRE  OF  CONFORMITY  TO 
A  BEING,  THE  ESSENCE  OF  WHOSE  CHARACTER  IS  INFINITE 
BENEVOLENCE,    UNDER    THE    DIRECTION    OF    INFINITE  WISDOM. 

Every  intelligent  being,  in  the  universe  of  God,  is  nat- 
urally susceptible  of  this  attachment.  Temperance, 
chastit}',  and  fortitude  are,  as  far  as  we  know,  useful  on- 
ly in  the  present  stage  of  our  existence  ;  but  there  is 
no  conceivable  state  of  rational  being,  in  which  we  may 
not  retain  faculties  for  loving  what  is  infinitely  lovely. 
Taking  all  this  into  account,  apply  Dr  Paley's  rule. 
Suppose  the  principle  of  love  to  God  influential,  wherev- 
er its  influence  can,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  felt. — 
Suppose  every  intelligent  being  in  the  universe  to  be 
actuated  by  a  desire  of  conformity  to  the  dictates  of  in- 
finite wisdom,  pointing  out  the  proper  means  of  effect- 
ing the  ends  of  infinite  benevolence.  In  this  case,  all 
intelligent  beings  would  be  co-operating  in  the  great 
work  of  creating  unbounded  enjoyment.  In  the  moral 
world,  a  r'^gard  to  the  will  of  the  All-wise  would  be 
the  pervading  principle  which,  like  gravitation  in  the 
system  of  external  nature,  would  prevent  all  irregulari- 
ty ;  or,  in  other  words,  all  deviation  from  that  conduct, 
of  which  the  tendency  is  to  produce  universal  happiness. 
The  duties  of  piety,  then,  derive  their  obligation,  not 


228 

from  any  gratification  which  their  performance  can  ad- 
minister to  Him,  whose  ineftable  felicity  can  receive 
neither  detriment  nor  augmentation  from  any  act  of  a 
created  being — nor  entirely  from  the  happiness  present, 
and  future,  which  the  performance  of  these  duties  pro- 
duces to  the  pious  individual — but  from  the  good  to 
which  the  natural  operation  of  a  principle,  that  identi- 
fies our  interests  vvith  the  plans  of  infinite  wisdom  and 
benevolence,  is  calculated  to  give  birth  ;  so  that  the 
general  beneficial  tendency  of  piet}'  is  as  much  greater 
than  the  general  beneficial  tendency  of  any  one  of  the 
ordinary  virtues,  as  the  rank,  which  the  duties  of  reli- 
gion occupy,  is  higher  than  that  which  is  conceded  to 
duties  of  any  other  description.  Therefore — if  the 
proposition,  thus  stated,  be  correct — whatever  reason 
we  have  to  believe  that  the  obligation  of  the  ordinary 
virtues  consists  in  their  utility — there  is  exactly  the 
same  kind  and  degree  of  reason,  why  we  should  come  to 
the  same  conclusion  with  regard  to  piety;  and,  of  con- 
sequence, with  regard  to  those  performances  which  are 
its  natural  expressions. 


IMMATERIALITY  OF  THE  HUMAN  SOUL. 

We  are  naturally  led  to  conceive  that,  besides  the 
(pialities  of  objects,  there  exist  certain  substrata,  nexus, 
or  substances,  by  means  of  which  these  qualities  are 
bound  together  ;  and  by  which  they  are — to  use  an  an- 
tiquated phraseology — received.  All,  however,  wc  can 
rationally  say   of  substance  is,  that  it  is  an  unknown 


I 


229 

cause  of  the  union  of  qualities  :  and  if  we  attempt  to  go 
any  farther,  we  shall  oniy  lose  ourselves  in  scholastic 
subtleties.  The  system  of  materialism  seems  to  me  to 
be  founded  on  some  confusion  of  ideas  upo,n  this  subject. 
We  have  been  understood  to  assert,  that  the  substance 
of  mind  differs  from  that  of  matter  ;  whereas  we  have 
never,  I  believe,  advanced  a  position  so  untenable,  be- 
cause placed  so  entirely  beyond  the  limits  of  legitimate 
reasoning,  as  well  as  of  philosophical  investigation. 

My  object  iu  the  present  essay,  is  less  to  refute,  than 
fairly  to  state,  the  system  of  materialism  ;  convinced  as 
I  am,  that  honest  scepticism,  in  this,  as  in  every  other 
case,  arises  from  the  misapprehension  of  the  question 
in  dispute. 

Our  only  notion  of  matter,  is  that  of  a  collection  of 
qualities  ; — our  only  notion  of  mind  that  of  a  succession 
of  states.  Qualities  are,  in  short,  in  both  cases,  the  on- 
ly'objects  of  our  knowledge.  It  is  really  trifling,  in  an 
argument  like  the  present,  to  tell  us,  that  qualities,  now 
unknown,  may  exist  in  union  with  the  known  qualities 
of  matter,  or  with  the  known  properties  of  mind  ;  and 
that  these  qualities,  both  matter  and  mind  may  possess 
in  common. 

The  total  irrelevancy  of  such  a  line  of  argument 
will  appear,  if  we  remember,  that  the  terms  matter  and 
mind  are  only  used  to  represent  certain  combinations  of 
qualities  ;  and  that  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  we  employ 
terms  to  designate  qualities,  with  the  existence  of  which 
we  are  unacquainted.  If  those  unknown  qualities,  which 
are  supposed  to  exist  in  union  with  the  known  qualities 

of  matter  and  mind,  were  revealed  to  us  ;  terras  might, 
10* 


230 

and  doubtless  would  be  employed  to  designate  these 
new  collections  of  properties.  Till  then,  however, 
when  we  assert  any  thing  to  be  material,  we  assert,  in 
other  words,  that  it  possesses  those  known  generic  qual- 
ities, to  the  union  of  which  we  have  given  the  name 
mailer  ;  and  when  we  denominate  any  other  thing  im- 
material, we  only,  in  eflfect  say,  that  among  its  known 
properties,  those  qualities,  the  union  of  which  consti- 
tutes what  we  call  matter,  are  not  to  be  found.  If  mat- 
ter or  mind  shall  appear  to  have  any  other  generic 
qualities,  besides  those  witli  which  we  are  at  present 
acquainted,  they  will  no  longer  be  mind  and  matter  ; — 
that  is  to  say,  they  will  no  longer  be  those  combinations 
of  properties,  to  which  those  terms  were  appropriated; 
but  novel  combinations  of  qualities,  to  which  those  terms 
never  were  appropriated. 

The  question,  therefore,  divested  of  much  of  its 
complexity,  resolves  itself  into  a  form  comparatively 
simple.  W'e  do  not  inquire,  whether  mind  and  matter 
are  in  substance  one  ; — that  is,  in  more  intelligible  lan- 
guage, whether  the  cause  of  the  union  of  properties  be, 
in  both  cases,  the  same.  Nor  do  we  endeavour  to  as- 
certain the  existence  of  some  unknown  common  proper- 
ly, in  union  with  those  collections  of  known  properties, 
to  which  the  names  mind  and  matter  have  been  assign- 
ed. Our  only  question  is,  whether,  among  those  con- 
nected properties,  to  which  we  give  the  generic  appel- 
lation of  mind  ;  those  properties  to  which,  existing  in  a 
state  of  union,  we  give  the  appellation  of  matter,  are  to 
be  fo\md.  If  the  reply  be  in  the  negative,  then  are  we 
justitied  in  decidedly  pronouncing  the  soul  immaterial — 


231 

that  is — in  decidedly  asserting-,  that  the  known  qualilic'^ 
to  which — and  to  which  alone,  we  give  the  nr«me  of  mat- 
ter, do  not  constitute  or  form  part  of  thai  number  of 
known  properties,  to  which,  and  to  which  alone,  we 
give  the  name  of  mind. 

Before  we  proceed  any  farther,  however,  a  question 
of  considerable  delicacy  presents  itself.       What  is  that 
combination    of  qualities   which   we    intend    to  denote, 
when  we  use  the  word  matter  ?    It  is  not,  however,  ne- 
cessary for  us  to  be  very  particular  in  our  enumeration, 
because  if  we  can  prove  that  any  one  of  the  qualities  of 
matter  is  not  possessed  by  mind  ;   we  shall  have  proved 
the  latter   to  be  a  collection  of  qualities  different   from 
the   former  ;  and   shall,  therefore,  as   we    have   before 
shown,  have  a  right   to  conclude   that  it   is  immaterial. 
I    do  not,  indeed,  wish   to  have  recourse   to  a  defective 
enumeration  :  I  only  mean  to  apologize  for  the  want  of 
extreme  accuracy,  should  that  want  be  found   to  exist. 
A  late  celebrated   professor*  of  a  sister  University,  de- 
fines our  notion  of  matter  to  consist  of  the  ideas  of  "  out- 
ness, extension,  and  resistance  ;"  or,  as  he  has  more  ful- 
ly explained  his  meaning,  "  matter  is  that  which  is  with- 
out us — which  has   parts — which   resists  our   efforts   to 
compress  it."     If  the  first  of  these  be  one  of  the  essen- 
tial qualities  of  matter,  the  question  is  at  once  and  for- 
ever set   at  rest.     That  it  is  so,  an  analysis  of  the  pro- 
cess  by  which  our  notions  of  externality   are  acquired, 
would,  perhaps,  lead  us  to  imagine.     As  I  do  not,  how- 

*  See  Dr.  Brown's  Physiology  of  the  Mind,  i  11.  Chap.  t.  pa- 
ges 106,  110. 


232 

ever,  wish  to  g-round  my  argument  on  what  maj^  by 
some  be  considered  a  petilio  principi,  1  will  endeavour 
to  select  a  definition,  or  more  properly,  an  enumeration, 
which,  if  less  comprehensive,  is,  perhaps,  less  exposed 
to  the  objections  of  our  opponents.  The  essential  qual- 
ities of  matter,  then,  I  conceive  to  be  solidity,  and  exten- 
sion ;  and  I  attach  to  these  terms  the  same  meaning 
which  was  attached  to  them  by  the  metaphysician  to 
whom  we  have  just  referred.  If  any  man,  who  calls 
himself  a  materialist,  doubt  the  propriety  of  this  enu- 
meration, and  assert  of  either  of  these  qualities,  that  its 
existence  is  not,  according  to  his  ideas,  essential  to  the 
existence  of  matter, — I  have  only  to  say,  that  my  con- 
troversy is  not  with  him — that,  as  he  and  I  attach  differ- 
ent meanings  to  the  term,  matter,  so  do  we,  of  conse- 
quence, to  the  term,  materialism  ;  and  that  every  argu- 
ment must,  therefore,  in  such  a  case,  resolve  itself  into 
a  mere  logomachy. 

The  only  idea  we  affix  to  the  term  mind  is  that  of  a 
variety  of  feelings  or  succession  of  states,  which  follow 
each  other  according  to  tixed  laws,  and  which  we,  there- 
fore, consider  as  reciprocally  causes  and  effects.  The 
materialist,  therefore,  before  he  can  carry  the  point  at 
which  he  is  aiming,  must  show  these  feelings  or  states 
to  be  possessed  of  solidity  and  extension.  The  materi- 
alist, therefore,  must  be  understood  to  assert,  that  ideas 
and  emotions  have  parts,  and  are  capable  of  resisting  our 
efforts  to  compress  them.  If  the  man,  who  professes 
materialism,  only  intend  that  ideas  and  emotions  arise 
from  material  changes,  he  in  fact  gives  up  the  very 
point  for  which  he  affects  to  be  contending.     If  our  on- 


233 

ly  notion  of  mltid  be  that  of  a  succession  of  states, — in 
other  word?,  of  ideas  and  emotions  ;  and  if  these  ideas 
and  emotions,  though,  in  some  way,  dependent  on  a  ma- 
terial process,  be  themselves  entirely  dis-tinct  from  the 
matter  employed  in  that  process,  and  from  any  other 
matter  whatsoever; — then  lyiind  has  nothing  in  common 
with  matter — the  soul  is  immaterial. 

The  materialist  is,  therefore,  I  think,  reduced  to 
this  alternative  :  he  either  believes  that  the  material 
process  produces  something  else  material  ;  and  that 
this  something  is  an  idea  or  emotion  ; — or  he  believes 
that  the  process — that  is,  the  movement  of  organized 
matter — is  itself  an  idea  or  emotion.  In  the  first  case, 
he  must  have  persuaded  himself  that  when,  for  instance, 
he  receives  a  blow,  the  pain  he  feels  is  an  extended 
and  solid  substance,  which,  however  subtle  a  liuid  it 
may  be,  might,  if  we  had  instruments  sufficiently  fine 
for  the  purpose,  be  detected,  measured,  and  divided. 
In  the  second,  that  the  arrangement  of  the  parts  of  a 
nerve  is  pain,  or  pleasure,  fancy  or  reasoning,  emotion 
or  thought — that  sensation  is  nothing  more  than  an  al- 
teration produced  in  the  relative  position  of  certain  par- 
ticles, in  certain  situations  ;  and  not  that  all  the  phe- 
nomena of  mind  are  the  results  of  bodily  organization  ; 
but  that  they  form  a  part  of  the  bodily  organization 
itself. 

Now  if  I  am  asked,  why  all  this  may  not  be  so  ? — I 
am  not,  perhaps,  able  to  demonstrate  any  impossibility 
in  the  case.  To  me,  however,  these  propositions  look, 
I  confess,  like  contradictions  in  terms  ;  and  their  con- 
verse appears  to  resemble  those  primary  truths  which 


234 

are  not  susceptible  of  proof,  because  too  self-evident  to 
need  it.  All  who  call  themselves  materialists  do  not, 
perhaps,  support  either  of  these  propositions  ;  and  we 
shall,  indeed,  before  we  conclude,  have  to  notice  some 
opinions  apparently  dissimilar  from  those  to  which  we 
have  adverted,  and  yet  embraced  b}',  perhaps^,  the  ma- 
jority of  those  who  profess  to  dissent  from  the  view  we 
take  on  the  subject  now  under  consideration.  To  these 
propositions,  however,  the  consistent  materialist  will,  I 
think,  find  that  his  system  inevitably  conducts  him  ;  and 
if  he  is  startled  at  their  boldness,  he  has  good  reason 
to  suspect,  that  he  is  yet  what  the  world  thinks  him, 
and  what  he  has  been  pleased  to  denominate  himself 

Let  us,  however,  examine  these  opinions  a  little 
more  closely,  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  in  how  far 
they  are  consistent  with  our  notions,  I  say  not  of  veri- 
similitude, but  of  possibility. 

It  will  be,  I  presume,  admitted,  that  we  have  no 
ideas,  except  those  which  we  acquire  by  means  of  sen- 
sation or  reflection.  It  will  also,  1  presume,  be  admit- 
ted, that  all  our  knowledge  of  the  qualities  of  matter  is 
gained  in  the  former  way ;  and  all  our  acquaintance 
with  the  states  of  mind,  in  the  latter.  The  only  correct 
idea  we  can  attach  to  solidity,  to  extension,  or  to  any 
quality  whatevej',  is  that  which  regards  it,  as  a  power 
possessed  by  matter,  in  consequence  of  which  it  is  able 
to  produce  a  certain  change  in  the  state  of  our  mind — 
or,  more  correctl}',  perhaps,  as  a  law  of  reciprocal  in- 
fluence, in  consequence  of  which  the  percipient  being 
is  affected  in  certain  ways,  when  it  is  placed  in  certain 
relative  situations  with  regard   to   material  substances. 


235 

Now,  if  thought  be  not  an  object  of  sensation,  and,  there- 
fore, have  not  the   power  of  producing   those  feelings 
which  are  produced   by  the  qualities  called  solidity  and 
extension  .;  then,  surely,  thought  is  neither  solid  nor  ex- 
tended ;  since  to  be  solid  and  extended,  is  nothing  more 
than  to  be  fitted  to   produce  these  sensations.     Whoev- 
er, then,  asserts,  that   thought  is  solid  and  extended,  in 
fact  asserts,  that  it  is  merely  a  power  of  producing,  in  a 
percipient  being,  the  sensations  of  solidity  and  extension. 
Such  sensations  would,  on  this  hypothesis,  be  only   the 
same  power  communicated  to  another  being  ;  and  so  on, 
in  infinitum.     As  this  is  absurd,  and  more  than  the  wild- 
est materialist  would  assert,  we  conclude,  that  thought 
is  something  entirely  distinct  from  such   power   or  ca- 
pability ;  and,  therefore,  perfectly  distinct  from  solidity, 
extension,  or  any  quality  of  matter.     If  thought  be  not 
something   more  than  a  solid,  extended  substance,  then 
follows   the  absurdity  to  which  we    have  alluded — if  it 
be  something  more  than  the  power  of  producing  sensa- 
tions in  a  percipient  being,  then  it  is  a  something  totally 
different  from  any  quality  of  matter ;  because  a  quality 
of  matter,  is  only  that  very  power  from  which  thought  is 
affirmed  to  be  so  completely  distinct.     The  moderate  ma- 
terialist will,  therefore,  perhaps,  content   himself  with 
a  modified  statement — only  asserting,  that  thought  is  a 
property  of  an   organized   substance,  which   organized 
substance  has  also  the  qualities  of  solidity  and  extension 
belonging   to  it ;  and  not   that  thought   is  itself  solid  or 
extended; — an  opinion  formed,  I  imagine,  on  some  anal- 
ogy, Ailsely  snp])Osed    to   exist,   between   thought,  and 
what  a  logician  would  call  a  secondary,  or  rather,  per- 


236 

haps,  an  accidental  quality  of  matter.  With  this  conces- 
sion we  ought,  perhaps,  to  rest  satislied  :  for  if  we  have 
shown  thought  to  be  neither  solid  nor  extended,  we 
have  proved  exactly  that  which  we  intended  to  estab- 
lish. If  those  successive  states,  to  which  we  give  the 
denomination,  mind,  be  not  themselves  solid  nor  extend- 
ed, then  mind  is  not  material. 

Let  us,  however,  for  a  moment,  consider  the  modifi- 
ed materialism,  if  indeed  it  be  materialism  at  ail.  I  re- 
marked, in  the  early  part  of  this  essay,  that  we  know 
nothing  of  substance  ;  and  that  the  only  information  we 
possess  relates  to  qualities,  whether  of  mind  or  matter. 
Still,  although  the  poverty  of  language  obliges  us  to 
have  recourse  to  the  phraseology — let  it  never  be  for- 
gotten, that  quality  or  property  of  mind  is,  in  its  nature, 
essentially  distinct  from  a  quality  or  property  of  matter. 
A  quality  of  matter  is — as  has  been  before  remarked — 
nothing  more  than  a  law,  in  consequence  of  which,  mat- 
ter produces,  under  certain  circumstances,  certain  chang- 
es in  a  percipient  being.  But  what  is  a  quality — a  prop- 
erty— a  state — or  whatever  you  choose  to  denominate 
it — of  this  percipient  himself?  It  is  not,  surely,  a  pow- 
er of  producing  a  change  in  another  percipient  being; 
since  such  a  supposition  would,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  involve  us  in  endless  absurdity.  And,  therefore, 
the  properties  of  mind  have  no  analogy  whatever  to 
the  qualities  of  matter.  Consequently,  thought  can  in 
no  way  answer  to  our  idea  of  a  quality  of  matter.  The 
only  notions  we  affix  to  the  term  matter  are,  we  have 
seen,  those  of  certain  qualities  in  a  state  of  union.  There- 
fore thought  can  in  no  way  answer  to  our  idea  of  mat- 


237 


ter.  Thought  is  not  mnterial.  The  same  reasoning 
will  apply  to  emotion,  and  all  the  other  phenomena  of 
mind.  Our  notion  of  mind  extends  no  farther  than  our 
acquaintance  with  these  phenomena.  Therefore,  we 
may  safely  pronounce  the  human  soul  Immaterial. 


IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

While  human  inquiries  are  not  nnfrequently  direct- 
ed to  subjects,  the  discussion  of  which,  gratifying  as  it 
is  to  curiosity,  has  little  immediate  relation  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  species;  there  are  other  topics  on  which  the 
mind  of  man  is  employed,  which  not  only  present  a 
boundless  field  of  speculation,  but  which  are  connected 
with  all  his  highest  hopes,  his  purest  enjoyments,  and 
his  most  animating  prospects.  Of  the  latter  description 
is  that  now  under  consideration.  The  doctrine  of  im- 
mortality, so  far  from  being  a  mere  speculation  destitute 
of  any  practical  result ; — administers  relief  to  those  who 
are  labouring  under  misfortune  ;  suggests  admonitions 
to  such  as  would  otherwise  be  inordinately  elated  with 
prosperity  ;  and  affords,  if  not  the  only,  yet  the  stron- 
gest, inducement  to  practise  those  numerous  virtues,  of 
which  the  present  reward  is,  at  best,  uncertain  and  ob- 
scure. 

Among  the  many  arguments  which  are  adduced  to 
prove  the  truth  of  this  important  doctrine,  none  has  ap- 
peared to  me  more  forcible  than  that  which  is  drawn 
from  the  perpetual  progress  of  the  human  mind  in  mor- 

20 


238 

al  and  intellectual  improvement.  This  has  appeared 
to  me  to  involve  some  very  striking  analogies,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  argument  which  is  ordinarily  drawn  froJiiit. 
But  without,  at  this  time,  particularly  noticing  this  view 
of  the  subject,  we  proceed  to  state  that  argument,  with 
as  much  candor  as  we  may. 

Man  is  evidently  made  for  improvement.  Not  only 
is  he  brought  into  this  world,  susceptible  of  that  im- 
provement, but  totally  unfit  to  guide  himself  through 
life,  to  escape  the  dangers  which  beset  his  path,  or  even 
to  acquire  the  most  ordinary  means  of  subsistence,  until 
these  capacities  have  been,  to  a  certain  degree,  devel- 
oped, if  any  limit,  however,  were  set  to  the  progress 
of  this  improvement,-  if  it  ceased,  whenever  the  char- 
acter was  sufficiently  matured  to  afford  security  against 
the  miseries  attendant  upon  unassisted  helplessness  ;  lit- 
tle distinction  would  be  found  to  exist  between  the  hu- 
man constitution  and  that  of  the  inferior  animals.  This 
is  not,  however,  the  case.  There  is  no  assignable  limit 
to  the  progress  of  mind.  While  every  generation  lays 
up  a  store  of  intellectual  riches  for  men  of  the  succeed- 
ing periods — each  individual  is  able  constantly,  and  in- 
definitely, to  grow  in  all  those  qualities  which  ennoble 
humanity.  No  sooner  is  an  eminence  attained,  than  an 
expanse  never  before  conceived  of,  is  laid  open ;  while 
new  and  superior  heights  appear  in  the  distance.  These 
too  are  gradually  climbed,  and  still  more  unbounded 
prospects  presented  to  the  astonished  eye. 

If  a  traveller  were  sent  by  some  superior  on  a  jour- 
ney of  importance  ;  if,  from  time  to  time,  looking  around 
him,  he  could  perceive  no  boundary  to  his  progress  ; — 


239 

i{  illimitable  views  were  then  stretched  out  before  him  i 
■ — and  if,  at  ever)'  step  of  his  road,  he  became  more  ful- 
ly convinced  that  what  he  had  traversed  was  a  verj 
minute  portion  compared  with  what  remained  unexplor- 
ed ; — should  we  not  deem  him  more  than  commonly  un- 
wise, were  he  to  conclude,  that,  because  he  happened 
to  have  passed  the  frontier  of  his  native  province,  his 
travels  were  at  an  end  ?  And  in  what  respect  does  he 
behave  more  reasonably,  who,  tinding  himself  placed  ia 
a  world  where  every  thing  calls  him  to  exertion, — 
where  well-directed  exertion  is  uniformly  followed  by 
amelioration,  and  where  the  extent  of  this  amelioration 
is  wholly  indetinite — fancies  that  all  hope  of  future  ad- 
vancement is  forever  cut  oif,  and  that  the  very  possibil- 
ity of  effecting  it  is  entirely  precluded  by  an  event 
which  has  not,  as  far  as  we  know,  any  natural^  but  which 
certainly  has  no  necessary^  connexion  with  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  thinking  principle  ?  There  is,  however, 
one  point  of  view  in  which  the  analogy  between  this 
traveller  and  the  human  soul,  to  a  great  degree,  fciils. 
The  former  will  gradually  yield  to  the  asperities  of  the 
road  :  ditBculties  will  leave  him  exhausted  and  spirit- 
less :  and  violent  elTorls,  often  repealed,  will  render 
farther  exertion  an  impossibility.  The  soul,  on  the 
contrary,  derives  fresh  vigor  from  every  struggle  ;  and 
not  only  finds  her  own  powers  considerably  augmented 
by  the  severe,  though  salutary  discipline, — but  is  able 
to  lay  under  contribution  all  that  she  has  already  subdu- 
ed, for  the  purpose  of  effecting  new  and  superior  con- 
quests. 

We  come  now  to  notice  that  analogy  to  which  w.e 


240 

rel'crred  in  the  earlier  part  of  this  essay.     The  iirogress 
of  the  human  nrsind  towards   improvement  is  the  conse* 
qnence,  partly,  of  our  own  exertions,  and,  partly,  of  tue 
constitution  of  nature.     The  infant  is  brought  into  the 
world  wholly  destitute  of  ideas,  and  destined  to  acquire, 
by  means  of  sensation,  those  materials   on  which  its  in- 
tellectual powers  are  afterwards  to  be  emplo}  cd.     Much 
now  depends  on  the  exertions   of  the  infant   mind  :  but 
something'  still  is  left  to  the  operations  of  nature — rath- 
er, to  the   direct  influence   of  nature's  God.     It  is   the 
child's  to  observe;  but  it  is  His  to   facilitate  its  means, 
and  to  improve   its  instruments  of  observation.     As  the 
sphere,  then,  of  observation  is  enlarged,  and  as  the  mind 
becomes  more  capable  of  employing  the  corporeal    or- 
gans, these  organs  are  developed  and  rendered  increas- 
ingly perfect,  till  they  at  last  acquire  their  highest  state 
of   existence.      Long,    however,   after   this    has    taken 
place,  the  mind  continues   to  go  forward   to  a   superior 
state  of  knowledge  and  enjoyment.     Death  at  last  takes 
place.     But  as  ever}'  change  in  the  structure  of  the  body 
has  hitherto  facilitated  the  employment  of  the  intellect- 
ual powers;  and  as,  at  any  rate,  the  exceptions  are,  for 
the  most  part,  anomalous,  and  traceable  to  some  partic- 
ular cause,  so  as  scarcely  to   form  exceptions  to  the  ad- 
mission of  that  general   rule  to  which  they  seem   to  be 
opj)Osed — is  it   not  rational  to  suppose  that  the  last  and 
greatest  corporeal  change  conduces  to  the  same  design 
with  all  the  rest ;    and  is  also  intended  to  promote  intel- 
lectual, and  moral  improvement  ? 

Another,  and,  perhaps,  a  more  striking  analogy  may 
be  not  altogether  fanciful.     Nature  evidently  intended 


241 

us  for  progressive  improvement.  Yet  it  is  a  singular 
fact  tiiat  tier  laws  are  so  constituted  as  to  co-operate 
with  the  exertions  of  the  individual,  and  to  modify  his 
corporeal  structure,  so  that  every  change  effected  in  it 
shall,  by  a  kind  of  re-action,  tend  to  corroborate  the 
character  which  that  individual  has  previously  formed. 
Thus,  the  man  who  gives  way  to  vicious  indulgence, 
not  only  debauches  his  principles,  and  adds  to  the  already 
superabounding  depravity  of  his  heart;  but  produces 
such  an  effect  on  the  organization  of  his  body  as  to  render 
abstinence  in  future  comparatively  painful.  For  the  il- 
lustration of  this  remark,  I  need  only  refer  to  the  vice 
of  drunkenness;  and  every  man's  recollection  will  fur- 
nish him  with  analogous  cases.  Whereas  the  virtuous 
man  does,  by  a  course  of  self-denial,  not  only  fortify  the 
principles  of  his  soul,  but  affect  the  organization  of  his 
body ;  so  that  to  the  charms  of  vicious  indulgence  he 
becomes  comparatively  insensible.  Thus,  a  man  per- 
fectly sober — accustomed,  I  mean,  to  nothing  stronger 
than  water — is  not  only  averse  l>om  the  brutality  of 
drunkenness;  but  is  disgusted  at  ihe  smell  and  taste  of 
spirituous  liquors.  Is  it,  then,  probable  that  the  great- 
est of  all  corporeal  changes  is  regulated  by  a  law  en- 
tirely different  from  that  which  we  see  in  constant  op- 
eration ?  Is  it  not,  at  least,  equally  probable,  that  as 
every  change  which  vice  has  effected  in  the  organized 
structure  of  the  human  frame,  has  tended  to  increase 
the  propen;*ity  toward,  and, — contradictory  as  the  sen- 
timent may  at  first  appear — to  diminish  the  pleasures 
20* 


242 

attendant  on  unlawful  indulgence  ;* — so  the  last  change, 
which  is,  in  many  cases,  the  result  of  this  very  indul- 
gence, will  still  fatally  co-operate  with  the  conduct  of 
the  individual  who  is  its  subject,  and,  in  some  way  or 
other,  tend  to  complete  at  once  the  deterioration  of  his 
character  and  the  misery  of  his  condition  ? 

Is  it  not  still  more  consonant  with  reason,  and  agree- 
able to  the  general  results  of  observation,  to  imagine 
that  an  effect  diametrically  opposite,  will  be  produced 
on  a  good  man  by  this  great  change  ?  His  whole  con- 
duct tends,  as  we  have  seen,  not  only  to  fortify  his  prin- 
ciples against  the  allurements  of  sense,  but  literally  to 
diminish  the  force  of  these  allurements  by  the  effect 
which  unvaried  temperance  produces  on  the  bodily 
structure.  Now,  the  changes  produced  by  advancing 
age  are  generally  calculated  rather  to  accelerate  than 
to  retard  this  progress,  and  to  abstract  the  soul  more 
and  more  completely  from  the  enchanting  fascinations 
of  sensuality.  .Death  is  the  greatest  change  advancing 
life  can  bring  with  it.  Is  it  not,  then,  probable  that  the 
effect  of  this  last  change  is  the  same  with  that  of  each 
of  those  by  which  it  has  been  preceded  ; — that  it  is  only 
another  instance  in  which  the  laws  of  nature  co-operate 
with  the  exertions  of  the  individual,  to  produce  one  re- 
sult;— and  that  as  every  minor  change  has  tended  to 
emancipate  the  good  man  from  the  tyranny  of  passion  ; 
so  this  last  and  greatest  change  will  complete  his  eman- 
cipation ; — crown,  with  ultimate  and  perfect  success, 
the  efforts  he  has  made  in  the  cause  of  virtue  ;  and  con- 
cur with  his  own  previous  endeavours  to  promote  his 
true  and  lasting  happiness  ? 

*  For  this  I  find  I  have  D.  Stuart's  authority  ;  and  also  Dr.  Butler's. 


243 


PROVIDENCE. 


Slant  adamantinis 


Decreta  coeli  fixa  vinclis, 
Nee  dubio  labefacta  casu, 

Nee  fraeta.vi,  nee  lemporis  invidis 
Oblivioni  obaoxia  denlibus. 


Sterne  rerum  Conditor,  omnia 
ConsuKa  cujus,  factaque,  sanctitas 
Illusfrat :  baud  quicquam  tibi  ingens 
Oibis  habet,  simile,  aut  secundum  1" 

Psm.  Ixxvii.     Buchanan. 

And  would''st  thou,  vain,  presumptuous,  feeble  man, 

Th'  eternal  counsels  of  the  Almighty  scan  ; — 

With  the  short  line  of  human  reason,  try 

To  fathom  the  abyss  of  Deity  ; — 

Boast  of  thy  wisdom's  mean,  contracted  store, 

And  disbelieve,  when  most  thou  should'st  adore  ? 

Yet  if  some  gleams  of  heavenly  light  are  seen, 
Piercing  the  gloomy  clouds  that  roll  between, 
Ah  !  let  us  catch  the  soul-enlivening  ray, 
-As  the  first  dawning  of  immortal  day. 


244 

The  more  wo  see — with  deeper  reverence  bend, 
Till  f;iith  in  sight — till  doubt  in  knowledge  end  ; 
And  all  (hat  now  perplexes,  quickly  fly 
Before  the  sunshine  of  Eternity! 

Ere  springing  gladly  from  chaotic  night, 
Beam'd  the  first  glow  of  new-created  light; 
Ere  murshalPd  stars,  in  brilliant  order,  shone, 
Or  seraphs  bow'd  before  the  Eternal  Throne  ; 
Ere  peopled  globes  with  happy  myriads  teemed; 
Ere  planets  rolled,  or  distant  systems  gleamed  ; 
Then  in  itself  the  uncreated  mind — 
Ocean  of  love,  and  mercy,  unconfin'd — 
In  wisdom  laid  the  universal  plan, 
Ere  sin,  or  grief,  or  worlds,  or  time  began. 
Then  did  He  see  whatever  since  hath  been, 
Each  mighty  movement  of  the  vast  machine  ; 
How,  ever  burning  with  seraphic  love, 
Should  sinless  angels  sing  his  praise  above  ; 
How,  through  their  hosts,  the  tide  of  bliss  should  roll, 
Large  and  immortal  as  the  deathless  soul  ; 
How  each  forever  undisturb'd  should  shine 
Bright  and  more  bright,  divine  and  more  divine;  — 
Still  to  their  dazzled  eyes,  th'  unbounded  view 
Be  as  unbounded,  as  when  life  was  new  ; 
And  still  the  matchless  glory  they  adore 
More  bright,  but  not  less  distant  than  before, 
Then  did  He  see  that  man's  perverted  will 
Would  start  from  good,  and  madly  seek  Cor  ill  ; 
That  from  this  spring  would  bitter  waters  flow, 
And  nature's  laws  produce  the  rebels'  wo. 


245 

Then  He  beheld,  in  all  their  direful  forms, 

Disease's  tortures,  and  misfortune's  storms  ; — 

Saw,  from  the  g-loom,  Iiow  radiant  morn  should  springy, 

Diffusing-  fragrance  from  her  golden  wing — 

Then,  Alchemist  Divine,  decreed  to  show, 

From  chaos,  order;  happiness  tVom  wo  ; 

And  make  each  small  event  in  nature  tend 

Thus  to  educe  the  universal  end. 

And  when  the  universe  in  order  stood. 
And  all  alike  was  t'air,  and  all  was  good — 
Each  various  cause  within  his  knowledge  plac'd — 
Each  late  effect,  in  one  wide  view  embrac'd — 
The  future  evil  which  should  surely  flow 
From  these  arrangements,  He  alone  could  know  : 
And  all  the  greatei*  good  which  thence  should  rise, 
And  compensate  the  partial  sacrifice, 
He  sees  as  clearly,  while  our  sorrowing  eye 
Drops  the  soft  tear  of  grieved  humanity; 
As  when,  at  last,  a  smiling  world  shall  raise 
The  grateful  song  of  universal  praise. 

'Tis  not  for  Him  to  change  his  vast  design, 
Alter,  erase,  dissolve,  and  re-combine, 
Like  some  mistaken  mechanist,  whose  skill 
Amends  defects,  or  adds  improvements  still; 
Till  the  device — at  first  imperfect — shows 
The  marks  of  wisdom,  as  its  beauty  grows  ; 
And  each  defect,  in  turn,  expelled — the  whole 
Bears  the  full  impress  of  the  artistes  soul. 


246 

From  all  eternity,  the  perfect  plan 
Existed,  ere  creation's  work  beg^an  ; 
Before  the  skies,  in  starry  lustre,  rose, 
Where  world  on  world,  on  system,  system  glows  ; 
Before  around  the  Mighty  Maker  threw 
Yon  heavenly  mantle  of  ethereal  blue; 
Or  bade,  control'd  by  some  mysterious  force, 
Each  floating-  globe  to  hold  its  measured  course. 

And  when  His  fiat  made  creation  stand  ; 
When  all  was  form'd  His  glorious  thoughts  had  plann'd  ; 
All  He  impress'd  with  fixed,  unvarying  laws, 
That  show  the  wisdom  of  the  great  First  Cause. 
Yet  what  are  laws  of  nature  ?     Do  they  bind 
Th'  eternal  purpose  of  th'  Almighty  Mind  ? 
Say — what  are  laws  of  nature,  but  design — 
Bright  declarations  of  the  will  Divine  ! 
What — but  a  proof  that  He,  whose  wisdom  sees 
Evil  and  good  in  all  their  nice  degrees, 
Determined  thus  His  glories  to  display, 
And  always  act  in  one — the  wisest  way. 

Yet  if  the  Omniscient,  in  his  wisdom,  saw. 
When  tirst  that  wisdom  fram'd  the  general  law, 
That  while  this  rule  was  fitted  to  control 
The  various  movements  of  the  mighty  whole  ; 
Good  universal  would,  at  times,  demand 
Some  interposing  and  suspending  hand — 
Then — so  th'  Eternal  would  the  system  frame, 
That,  when  that  hour  of  mighty  import  came, 
His  word  might  stop  the  vast  machine,  or  bend 
Its  springs  innumerous  t'ward  some  different  end  ; 


247 

Yet  each  small  link  unbroken  still  remain, 
And  every  wheel  minute  its  place  retain. 
Not  imperfection  this — His  general  view 
Embraced  the  law  and  its  suspension  too. 
No  wild  caprice,  or  knowledge  newly  given 
Can  change  th'  eternal  purposes  of  Heaven  : 
But  when  by  general  laws  their  course  proceeds, 
Or  new  arrangement  to  those  laws  succeeds  ; 
Rule  and  exception  in  one  end  combine, 
As  different  portions  of  the  same  design. 

But  should  some  frigid  sceptic,  therefore,  dare 
To  doubt  the  all-prevailing  power  of  prayer; 
As  if 'twere  ours,  with  impious  zeal,  to  try 
To  shake  the  purposes  of  Deity — 
Pause,  cold  philosopher — nor  snatch  away 
The  last — the  best — the  wretched's  surest — stay. 
Look  round  on  life,  and  trace  its  checkered  plan, 
The  griefs,  the  joys,  the  hopes,  the  fears  of  man. 
Tell  me,  if  each  deliverance,  each  success. 
Each  transient  golden  gleam  of  happiness, 
Each  palm  that  genius  in  the  race  acquires. 
Each  thrilling  rapture  virtuous  pride  inspires, — 
Tell  me,  if  each  and  all  were  not  combined 
In  the  great  purpose  of  th'  Eternal  Mind. 
Yet  on  the  brow  no  laurelled  crown  would  rest, 
No  swelling  triumph  rise  in  virtue's  breast. 
Had  not  the  race  been  run,  the  contest  fought. 
The  charms  of  vice  despised,  and  purer  pleasures 
sought. 


248 

Thus  while  we  humbly  own  the  vast  decree 
Formed  in  the  bosom  of  Eternity  ; 
And  know  all  secondary  causes  tend 
Each  to  contribute  to  one  mighty  end  ; 
Yet  while  these  causes  firmly  fixed  remain  ; — 
Links  quite  unbroken  in  the  endless  chain  ; 
So  that,  could  one  be  snapped,  the  whole  must  fail, 
And  wild  confusion  o''er  the  world  prevail — 
Why  may  not  our  petitions,  which  arise, 
In  humble  adoration,  to  the  skies, 
Be  fore-ordained  the  causes  whence  shall  flow 
Our  purest  pleasures  in  this  vale  of  wo  ? 
Not  that  they  move  the  purpose  that  hath  stood, 
By  time  unchanged,  immeasurably  good  ; 
But  that  the  event  and  prayer  alike  may  be 
United  objects  of  the  same  decree. 

When  fraught  with  mercy,  Howard's  generous  hand 
Diffused  extensive  blessings  through  the  land  j 
When,  like  some  angel  from  the  realms  above, 
He  richly  poured  his  overflowing  love  : — 
By  dread,  disgust,  and  suffering  unrepressed, 
When  rose  the  flame  within  his  holy  breast, 
Shone  through  his  life,  in  all  his  actions  glowed, —    ' 
A  gleam  of  heavenly  lustre  here  bestowed — 
Lit  a  late  spark  in  sorrow's  fading  eyes, 
And  gave  this  earth  one  tint  of  Paradise — 
All  this  was  known  to  Him  whom  Howard  served — 
Whose  love  inspired  him  and  whose  vigor  nerved. 
All  had  been  known  in  man's  primreval  joy  ; 
— No  sin  to  taint — no  danger  to  destroy — 


I 

I 


249 

And  all  was  fore-ordained  : — Yet  had  not  zeal 
Burned  in  his  heart,  and  taught  that  heart  to  feel ; 
Had  not  his  open  hand  and  bounteous  store 
The  pris'ner  ransomed,  and  relieved  the  poor; 
These  pure  and  blest»effects  of  generous  worth 
Had  never  warmed  and  vivified  the  earth. 

Then  why — when  Howard  fixed  his  soul  above, 
Communed  with  Him  who  is  essential  love  ; 
Went  to  the  fount  of  ligiit — and  thus  supplied 
His  weaker  torch  from  that  resplendent  tide  ; 
And  prayed  that  He  who  raised  the  noble  fire, 
His  hopes  would  bless,  and  crown  his  best  desire — 
Why  might  not  this,  a  necessary  cause, 
Fixed  by  unknown,  but  yet  unchanging  laws, 
As  much  conduce  to  set  the  prisoner  free, 
And  pour  the  flood  of  light  and  liberty ; 
As  those  exertions  whence  we  all  can  trace 
Blessings  so  numerous  on  our  groaning  race  ? 


21 


250 


As  the  subjects  of  Necessity,  Free-will,  and  othei 
metaphysical  questions  were  discussed  in  the  Moral  Phi- 
losophy Class,  it  was  necessary  that  William — whatever 
side  he  adopted — should  take  a  part  in  the  controver- 
sy :  and  it  will  have  been  seen  from  the  list  of  his  es- 
says already  presented  to  the  reader,  that  he  wrote  oa 
several  of  them.  His  profound  and  habitual  reverence 
for  the  Holy  Scriptures,  which — whatever  befel  the 
jarring  speculations  of  philosophy — he  knew  to  be 
"  true  altogether,"  would  ever  preserve  him  from  ad- 
mitting cne  metaphysical  opinion,  whose  consequences, 
if  fairly  deduced,  should,  in  his  view,  impugn  either  a 
doctrine  or  a  precept  of  revelation.  He  was  confident 
that,  with  whatever  plausibility  of  reasoning  or  show  of 
demonstration,  such  a  speculation  might  be  supported  ; 
there  must  be  some  radical  error,  if  it  was  at  variance 
with  any  unquestionable  position  of  the  word  of  God. 
He  knew  that  as  all  truth  had  "  its  seat  in  the  bosom 
of  God,"  and  that  as  "  her  voice  is  the  harmony  of  the 
world  ;"  genuine  philosophy  must  arrive  at  similar  con- 
clusions with  divine  revelation,  on  all  those  questions  to 
the  discussion  of  which  she  is  competent.  And  on  this 
principle,  he  deemed  it  infidelity,  scarcely  disguised,  to 
say,  "  This  notion  may  be  little  accordant  with  some 
views  of  scripture  ;  but  we  now  treat  only  of  philosoph- 
ical truth." 

The  duty  of  prayer  is  not  left  as  a  doubtful  question, 
to  any  man  who  receives  the  holy  scriptures  as  from 
God.     Yet  every  one   who  has   thought  deeply  on  the 


251 

subject,  must  have  met  with  the  metaphysical  difficult}' 
which   my  son   here — I   think,  triumphantly — combats. 
He  wrote  to  me  on  the  occasion  ;  and  assured  me,  that 
he  composed  the    poem,  not  as  a  mere  (rial   of  literary 
skill  ;  but  on  prmciple,  in  order — as  far  as  his  juvenile 
eftorts  might  operate — to  counteract  what  he  founil  to 
be  the  actual  consequences,  thougli  not  the  intended  ef- 
fects, of  certain  speculations  to  which  the  minds  of  his 
companions   were   directed.      He    possibly   found   that 
some,  with  whom  he  was  in   Iiabits  of  literary  inter- 
course had  deduced,  or  were   inclined  to  deduce,  from 
their  notion  of  the  unalterable  and  necessary  perfection  of 
God^s governmeni.^  a  reason  for  the  total  neglect  of  prayer. 
Revelation,  if  its  paramount  authority  were  admitted, 
would  instantly  have  decided   the  question  :  but, — as  it 
was, — he  reasoned  on  principles  which  those  who  differ- 
ed from  him  admitted. 


252 


Few  are  the  parents — especially  among-  those  that 
have,  like  myself,  to  mourn  for  an  only  child — who  will 
not  congratulate  me  on  having  to  insert,  in  these  me- 
moirs, the  following  letter  from  Professor  Mylne,  under 
Tvhom  my  beloved  William  spent  his  last  entire  session. 


Glasgow  College,  Feb.  27,  1822. 
My  dear  Sir, 

1  AM  very  much  ashamed  to  think  that,  from 
various  circumstances,  which  I  need  not  detail,  I  have 
not  yet  been  able  to  answer  the  request  with  which  you 
honored  me  some  time  since  ;  and  I  particularly  regret 
that  I  have  missed  an  opportunity  of  transmitting  to  Mr. 
Durant,  in  your  packet  to  him  of  the  24th,  my  little  con- 
tribution to  the  character  of  his  late  excellent  son.  I 
had  gone  to  Edinburgh  on  Friday,  and  your  note  of  Sat- 
urday did  not  reach  me  till  my  return  home,  late  on  the 
evening  of  the  24th.  I  do  now  very  willingly  engage 
in  the  office  you  have  imposed  upon  me.  I  regard  it  as 
no  unpleasant  ofSce. — In  giving  my  testimony  to  the 
worth  and  amiableness  of  your  late  lamented  young 
friend,  I  am  but  giving  language  to  the  sentiments  of 
esteem  and  affection  which  I  felt  for  him  while  he  liv- 
ed, and  which  I  now  fondly  cherish  for  his  memory. 
Yet  m}'  testimony  can  be  but  brief  and  simple — suited 
to  the  acquaintance  which  I  had  with  him;  which  was 
only  of  short  standing, — and   had   never  grown  up  into 


253 

habits  of  ease  and  familiarity  :  probably,  therefore,  it 
will  fall  short  of  that  juster  idea  of  his  worth  which  your 
intimate  knowledge  of  him  would  impress  upon  you  ; 
and,  of  course,  it  will  be  still  farther  from  approaching 
to  that  higher  estimate  of  him  which  his  father  could 
not  but  form, — from  those  endearing  intercourses  of  re- 
ciprocal confidence  and  affection,  in  which  they  had 
been  accustomed  to  live. — I  have  only  to  state  in  a  few 
words,  the  very  sincere  esteem  in  which  1  held  him,  and 
the  grounds  on  which  that  esteem  was  rested. 

My  acquaintance  with  W.  F.  Durant  cannot  be  said 
to   have  commenced  before  Nov.  1820,  at  which  time 
he  joined  the  Ethic  class.     Being  then  brought  immedi- 
ately under   my   observation   as   a   student,  I  soon   had 
abundant  evidence  how  well  he  was  entitled  to  his  high 
reputation  for   talents  and  good  conduct  in  all   the  pre- 
ceding stages  of  his  course  of  education  in  our  Universi- 
ty.— His  uniform  and  exemplary  attention  to  all  the  parts 
of  his  academical  duties  ;  the  masterly  appearances  he 
made  on  all   those  occasions  which  gave   opportunities 
for  exerting  and   proving  either  his  natural  abilities,  or 
his  previous  acquirements,  or  his  literary  industry  ;  the 
unobtrusive  modesty  with  which,  on  such  occasions,  his 
eminence  was  exhibited  ;  or,  rather,  with  which,  with- 
out any  eflfort  on  his  part,  it  came  into   view  ;  secured 
to  him  from  the  class  an  unanimous  sentiment  of  esteem, 
combined  with  cordial   affection.     His  class-fellows,  the 
associates  with  him  in  study,  the  constant  witnesses,  and, 
therefore,  the  well  qualified  judges,  of  his  merit,  highly 
appreciated  its  superiority,  and   eagerly  took  every  op- 
portunity of  doing  it  justice.     The  rank  which  thev  as- 
21* 


254 

signed  to  him  was  among*  those  of  the  very  highest  em- 
inence in  the  class;  and  the  prize  which  they  adjudged 
to  him,  by  their  votes,  corresponded  to  the  high  consid- 
eration in  which  they  held  him.  It  gives  me  great 
pleasure  to  say  that,  in  these  sentiments,  and  this  deci- 
sion of  the  Ethic  students,  that  year,  1  most  cordially 
concurred. 

Of  the  various  remarkable  features  in  his  mind,  that 
which  always  struck  me  as  most  remarkable  and  char- 
acteristic, was  the  soundness  and  vigor  of  his  judgment, 
to  which,  at  so  early  a  period  of  his  life,  he  had  arriv- 
ed. Perhaps  I  may  have  noticed  it  the  more,  because 
it  was  brought  before  me  on  many  occasions,  and  par- 
ticularly by  the  exercises  composed  by  him,  and  submit- 
ted to  my  examination.  These  exercises  make  part  of 
the  regular  business  in  our  Ethic  class.  They  are  writ- 
ten on  subjects,  moral  or  metaphysical,  that  either  have 
been  presented  to  the  students,  or,  sometimes,  that  have 
been  chosen  by  themselves  ;  and,  from  the  manner  in 
which  they  are  executed,  a  tolerably  correct  judgment 
may  be  tormed,  not  only  of  the  attainments,  the  industry 
and  ability  of  their  authors,  but,  sometimes  also,  of  their 
peculiar  cast  of  mind,  the  general  complexion  and  ten- 
dency of  their  intellectual  constitution  and  habits.  From 
many  of  these  performances,  put  into  my  hands  by  Mr. 
Ourant,  1  certainly  formed  a  high  idea  both  of  his  pow- 
ers and  of  his  principles.  1  thought  I  perceived  in 
them,  not  those  shining  qualities  only,  which  one  is 
pleased,  though  not  much  surprised,  to  meet  with  in 
tlio  young ;  but  others  also,  more  rare  and  enviable, 
which  are  thought  to  characterise  minds  happily  form- 


255 

ed  at  first,  and  brought  to  ripeness  and  solidity  by  ad- 
vanced years,  and  by  judicious  culture  and  discipline. 
The  clearness  of  his  conceptions,  the  precision  of  his 
language,  and  the  closeness  and  accuracy  of  his  reason- 
ing; — his  candor  in  comparing  and  estimating  different 
philosophical  doctrines  ; — his  caution  in  forming  opin- 
ions ; — his  moderation  and  temper  in  stating  and  defend- 
ing them  ; — and  the  mild,  but  decisive  firmness  with 
which  he  maintained  them,  when  he  felt  their  evidence 
to  be  satisfactorj',  and  their  consequences  important  ; — 
appeared  to  me  clear  indications  of  an  intellect,  which 
had  not  only  been  naturally  endowed  with  great  acute- 
ness  and  perspicacity,  but  which  also  had  already  reach- 
ed to  no  common  degree  of  eminence  in  steadiness,  cool- 
ness, mildness,  and  other  qualities,  which  we  scarcely 
expect  to  find  except  in  those  whose  powers  have  been 
matured,  whose  principles  have  been  fixed,  by  lives 
spent,  not  merely  in  the  pursuits  of  science,  but  in  the 
cultivation  of  practical  wisdom, 

I  have  chosen  to  confine  myself  to  what  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  most  striking  features  in  his  character. 
His  firm  and  manly  way  of  thinking  and  feeling  so  often 
brought  under  my  notice  in  the  exercises  I  have  men- 
tioned, was  not  less  visible  in  other  instances.  It  seem- 
ed to  me  to  influence  his  whole  conduct,  and  to  throw 
around  his  behaviour  and  manner,  at  all  times,  an  air 
of  respectability  and  dignity.  I  leave  it  to  those  who 
knew  him  more  intimately  than  I  did,  to  speak  of  other 
excellent  and  amiable  qualities  of  heart  and  temper, 
which  1  have  reason  to  know  belonged  to  his  character  ; 
but  which  1  had  little  opportunity  of  observing.     Since 


256 

my  connexion  with  this  University,  I  know  no  instance 
ot' the  death  of  a  student,  which  has  excited  more  gen- 
eral and  deep  regret,  or  which  has  mora  painfully  dis- 
appointed the  fond  hopes  of  a  life  full  of  honor  to  the 
individual  himself,  of  gratification  to  his  friends,  and  of 
benefit  to  society. 

Believe  me  to  be,  dear  Sir, 

Yours  most  truh-, 

James  Mylne. 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wardlaw. 


257 


HIS    RETURN    HOME    IN    MAY,   1321,  AND  HIS    OCCUPA- 
TIONS   DURING    THE    VACATION, 

His  arrival  last  May,  (1821)  produced  unmixed  J03'. 
To  his  aunt  and  father,  at  least,  he  was  more  lovely 
than  ever,"  and,  except  that  he  seemed  improved  in 
every  thing-,  he  was  unaltered.  His  afflicted  relative 
was  better,  and  we  took  a  journey  together,  which  while 
it  seemed  greatly  to  strengthen  her,  in  an  equal  degree 
delighted  us.  Towards  the  end  of  the  summer,  how- 
ever, she  faltered  ;  but  rallied  again  sufficiently  to  rea- 
der his  departure  from  us  for  Scotland  less  bitter  than 
I  feared  it  would  have  been — he  seemed,  at  least,  to 
think  that  he  should  see  her  again,  and  see  her  im- 
proved. 

On  his  return  to  us,  he  paid  increased  attention  to 
mathematics,  &c.  in  order  to  prepare  himself  for  the 
NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY  class,  ou  which  he  was  about  to  en- 
ter in  the  following  session.  He  composed  less  in  Lat- 
in ;  and  in  Greek  he  read  (besides  his  constant  and  daily 
reading  in  the  Greek  Testament)  only  the  Idylls  of  The- 
ocritus, of  whom  he  was  uncommonly  fond.  His  chief 
employment  was  an  essay  of  considerable  length,  "  On 
THE  STANDARD  OF  Taste,"  intended  for  a  University 
PRIZE.  In  this,  he  examined,  with  more  than  even  his 
usual  acuteness,  the  principles  of  Hume,  Reid,  Lord 
Kairaes,  Burke,  Blair,  Stewart,  Allison,  and  almost.every 
writer  of  eminence,  on  the  subject.  Of  the  success  of 
his  labours,  in  comparison  with  those  of  iiis  competitors^ 


258 

we  can  have  no  proof;  for,  as  the  essays  were  not  to 
be  given  in  till  January,  1C22,  his  could  not  of  course, 
take  its  chance.  Of  the  ability  displayed  in  it,  there 
can  be  but  one  opinion.*  Ho  wrote  also  an  excellent 
translation  of  Cicero's  fine  oration,  De  Lege  Manilla. 

While  at  home,  he  read  with  great  attention,  and 
with  almost  unmixed  pleasure,  the  four  volumes  of  the 
late  Dr.  Brown  on  Mental  Philosophy.  We  had  con- 
templated something  in  reference  to  that  work,  for  our 
employment  during  a  part  of  next  summer :  but  this,  with 
many  other  of  my  fondest  schemes,  is  perished  forever. 
He  read  also  Locke ;  and  his  intention  was,  to  finish,  at 
least,  for  the  present,  his  metaphysical  studies^  by  read- 
ing through  Des  Cartes  and  Malebranche  at  College. 
Steady  to  his  purpose,  he  had,  I  found,  begun  the  for- 
mer author — how  far  he  had  proceeded,  I  know  not, — 
when  an  end  was  put  to  all  such  pursuits. 

*  Though  the  Essay  could  not  be  presented  for  competition, 
both  Dr.  VVardlaw  and  I  thought  it  not  undesirable  that  a  few  of 
the  professors,  who  knew  and  respected  my  son,  should  see  it.  In 
a  letter,  dated  March  2,  Dr.  Wardlaw  says,  "  I  have  this  morn- 
ing sent  (he  exercise  on  Taste  to  Mr.  Mylne,  accompanied  with 
an  explanatory  letter.  It  is  one,  I  think,  which  will  more  than 
maintain  (dear  lamented  youth  !)  the  high  reputation  he  had  ac- 
quired. Alas!  that  that  reputation  should  now  attach  to  the 
memory  only,  instead  of  attending,  as  we  fondly  but  vainly  hop- 
ed, the  living  author,  through  an  active,  and  brilliant  and  (what 
is  best  of  all)  useful  career  !  The  perusal  of  it  has  only  served  to 
awaken  all  my  bitter,  and,  I  had  almost  said,  and  I  fear  I  might 
say,  with  too  much  truth,  %nfi.del  regrets.  But,  oh  !  if  all  wert 
as  clear  to  us,  as  it  is  to  the  Supreme  Disposer  himself,  where 
would  be  the  trial  of  faith,  where  the  room  for  the  exercise  of 
trust  ?     "  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God." 


259 

On  Thursday,  17th  of  October,  he  left  us  tor  Scot- 
iand.  His  health  seemed  as  good  as  usual ;  and  if  his 
spirits  were  less  buoyant  than  on  former  occasions,  I 
could  attribute  it  to  a  suspicion,  lurking  in  his  mind,  that 
his  aunt  was  worse  than  she  would  acknowledge.  He 
pursued  and  terminated  his  journey  in  health.  There 
seemed,  I  thought,  a  want  of  that  vivacity  which  had 
generally  characterized  his  correspondence  ;  but  it  was 
not  such  as  to  create  the  slightest  alarm. 

On  his  arrival  at  Glasgow,  he  entered  the  class  of 
Dr.  Meikleham,  who  has  spoken  in  highly  respectful 
terms  of  an  introductory  essay  which  William  deliver- 
ed. But  as  that  gentleman  has  permitted  me  to  print 
his  letter,  I  will  myself  say  nothing  of  two  essays  which 
I  have  found  among  my  son's  papers, — one,  "  On  the 
course  of  study  in  the  Natural  Philosophy  class,"  and 
another,  "  On  Solidity."' 


260 


DR.    MEIKLEHAm's    TESTIMONIAL. 

College,  GJasgow,  Feb.  15,  1822. 

The  late  William  Friend  Durant  entered  him- 
self a  student  in  my  public  class,  on  Friday,  the  2d 
of  November  last.     He  was  taken  ill  very  soon  after. 
My  course  commenced  on  Tuesday  the  6th  of  Novem- 
ber.    Mr.  Durant  attended  only  a  few^  days.     My  knowl- 
edge of  him,  therefore,  from  my  own  observation,  must, 
of  necessity,  be  very  imperfect.     At  the  same  time,  it 
so  happens,  that  I   had  an  opportunity  of  perceiving, 
that  he  promised  to  attain,  in  my  department,  to  supe- 
rior distinction.     As  soon   as  I  had  fairly  commenced 
my  course,  and  given  some   explanation  of  its  object, 
and  of  the  method  to  be  followed  in  conducting  it,  I  pro- 
posed  to  my  students,  when   assembled,  at  the  hour  of 
examination,  on  Wednesday  the  7th  of  November,  that 
they  should,  each  of  them,  write  a  short  essay,  contain- 
ing some  account  of  what  they  had  heard  in  the  lectures 
of  Tuesday  and  Wednesday, — this  essay  to  be  read  in 
the   class  on   Friday.     Mr.  Durant's   name   was  by   the 
date  of  his  enrolment  the  tifth   on  ray  list.     The  four 
gentlemen  whose  names  had  been  taken  down  prior  to 
his,  happened  to  be  absent  from  the  meeting  of  Friday, 
or  to  be  unprepared.     Mr.  Durant  was  present ;  and 
very  fully   prepared.     He  was,  thus  accidentally,  the 
first  who  read   an  essay  in  my  class  this  session.     His 
essay  commanded  the  entire  attention  of  his  hearers. 
It  was  full,  distinct,  and   perspicuous  ;  and   was  heard. 


261 

not  only  with  pleasure,  but  also,  I  believe,  with  consid- 
erable benefit,  by  many  of  his  fellow-students.  To  en- 
able me  to  estimate,  as  soon  as  possible,  the  compara- 
tive merits  of  my  students,  I  very  generally,  at  the  time 
of  their  earliest  appearances,  make  some  short  note, 
whereby  I  may  recal,  in  some  degree,  the  impression 
made  at  the  time  on  my  mind.  Accordingly,  there 
St  ind  ill  my  roll,  opposite  to  Mr.  Durant's  name,  and  re- 
ferring to  this  essay,  the  words,  very  superior.  By  the 
end  of  the  following  week,  I  had  occasion  to  remark 
some  irregularity  in  Mr.  Durant''s  attendance.  He  im- 
mediately waited  upon  me,  and  was  much  affected  when 
he  informed  me,  that  his  mind  had  received  a  severe 
shock  from  hearing  of  the  death  of  his  aunt.  I  saw 
him  no  more. 

William  Meikleham, 
Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy. 


He  entered  at  the  same  time  under  the  Hebrew  pro- 
fessor, and  had  just  commenced  his  attendance,  as  he 
was  taken  ill.  1  had  wished  him  to  begin  with  me  in 
the  summer  ;  but  /  had  learned  the  language  with 
points,  and  it  was  taught  at  Glasgow  without  points; 
and  he  had,  besides,  so  much  to  do  with  mathematics 
and  his  e?say,  that  he  had  no  time  for  Hebrew.  He  en- 
tered also  the  extra  class  of  Mr.  Mylne,  who  dolivprs, 
once  in  two  years,  a  course  of  lectures  on  political  econ- 
22 


262 

omy — a  subject  to  which  William  had  paid,  both  at 
home  and  at  colleg-e,  considerable  attention  from  the 
age  of  thirteen  or  fourteen.  He  had  read  Malthus,  God- 
win, and  some  others  ;  besides  tlie  masterly  discussions 
of  the  subject  in  the  Monthly',  Eclectic,  Quarterly  and 
Edinburgh  Reviews,  for  the  last  six  years.  Just  after 
he  was  fifteen,  he  wrote  on  the  poor  laws  a  considera- 
ble tract,  in  which  he  had  examined,  with  no  small  de- 
gree of  ability,  the  principles  of  Malthus  and  his  oppo- 
nents.    It  now  lies  by  me  as  a  literary  curiosity. 


As  we  find,  my  dear  son  arrived,  for  the  last  time, 
at  Glasgow,  and  just  commencing  those  studies  which 
would  have  completed  his  literary  and  philosophical 
course  at  the  University,  1  may,  before  I  touch  on  the 
events  which  terminated  his  short  and  brilliant  career 
on  earth  ;  and  which  should  most  naturally  close  the 
narrative  ;  take  a  brief  review  of  him,  either  as  he  ap- 
pears in  these  memoirs,  or  offers  himself  to  my  memo- 
ry. Allowing  for  only  the  single  exception,  that  his 
information  became  daily  more  extensive,  and  his  pow- 
ers of  mind  more  matured,  I  might  fix  on  any  period 
from  his  seventh  year,  and  it  would  describe  his  char- 
acter through  life.  He  was  no  otherwise  changed  than 
as  *'  he  grew  in  stature  and  in  wisdom." 

He  was  of  a  robust  and  most  manly  form.  Without 
being  handsome,  he  was  a  youth  that,  bj'  the  firmness, 
the  erectness,  the  tout  ensemble  of  his  appearance,  would 
often  strike  the  attention  of  strangers.     He  was  rather 


2()J 

indifferent  to  dross,  hated  the  appearance  of  being  tin- 
icai ;  and  at  College,  I  understand,  though  never  at 
home,  was  almost  slovenly.  But  there  was  snch  a  per- 
fect vigor  of  make  and  movement  about  him  ;  such  pow- 
er of  exertion  ;  that,  to  use  his  own  language  in  refer- 
ence to  another, — 

"  Long  unfatigusd,  he  vigorous  bounded  on, 
Grace  in  tach  step,  io  every  action  shone  ;^'* 

such  an  expression  of  talent  and  sweetness,  of  simplicity 
and  candor  ;  that  every  person  who  saw  and  knew  him, 
felt  that  he  was  one  of  the  finest  illustrations  of  the  sana 
mem  in  sano  corpore.  One  of  our  dearest  friends,!  ad- 
dressing, soon  after  his  death,  a  number  of  young  peo- 
ple, said,  "  One  of  the  leading  delusions  of  youth,  is 
presumption  on  the  length  of  life.  Since,  however,  I 
last  met  you,  a  new  instance  has  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge, in  my  own  immediate  acquaintance,  of  the  abso- 
lute vanity  of  confiding  in  the  vigor  of  youth,  in  consti- 
tutional strength,  and  in  all  that  seems  to  promise  pro- 
tracted length  of  days. — The  son  of  a  much  valued 
friend,  approaching  to  manhood,  favoured  with  a  form 
the  most  athletic,  and  with  health,  that,  from  the  days 
of  infancy,  never  tiagged  or  abated — blest  too  with  tal- 
ents of  the  highest  order,  cultivated  with  the  most  per- 
severing diligence,  graced  with  literary  honors  well 
earned — adorned  with  a  childlike  simplicity  the  most 
attractive,  and  with  fil.al  virtues  that  met  and  exceeded 
all   the  wishes  of  the  *  *  *  *  of  fathers — that  son,  of 

*  The  Wizard.  +  Mr.  Bullar,  of  Southampton. 


264 

so  many  hopes  and  so  many  prayers — that  beloved 
youth,  to  whom  so  many  youths  looked  up  with  fond 
veneration,  and  loved  for  the  engaging  goodness  that 
arrogated  nothing  to  itself,  nor  ever  gave  pain  to  an  in- 
ferior mind.  *  *  *  *  If  any  might  have  been  entitled 
to  presume  on  health  and  long  life,  he  was  of  that  num- 
ber. If,  too,  we  had  looked  out  for  one  whose  length- 
ened life  seemed  peculiarly  desirable,  that  his  fine  tal- 
ents might  have  given  new  energy  to  the  noblest  princi- 
ples in  a  career  of  usefulness,  here  was  a  youth  who 
seemed  marked  for  such  a  purpose." — *•'  Where,"  says 
Dr.  Wardiaw,  '•  among  you  ail  is  a  frame  more  robust, 
or  a  constitution  more  sound,  or  a'  look  more  full  of 
health,  than  his,  whom  sudden  disease  has^  in  a  few  days, 
shaken  to  the  dust  ?" 

He  possessed  some  rrither  striking  pfxuliarities, 
which  often  afforded  us  great  entertainment,  and  some- 
times produced  no  small  vexation.  In  many  of  these, 
he  exactly  resembled  his  maternal  grandfather,  though 
he  had  never  seen  him,  and  though  neither  his  mother 
nor  his  aunt  had  one  of  these  characteristics.  He  was 
remarkably  vnhandy.  1  had  bought  him,  when  quite 
young,  a  chest  of  carpenter's  tools,  hoping  that,  in  rai- 
ny weather,  he  might  be  able  to  amuse  himself  by  me- 
chanical contrivances.  A  companion  of  his, — son  of  my 
highly  valued  t'riend,  the  clergyman  of  Poole — had  con- 
siderable dexterity,  and  used  to  help  him  in  his  carpen- 
tering; but  he  never  could  produce  any  thing  which 
was  not  the  most  uncouth  that  hgman  hands  could  well 
form.  lie  was  the  most  unapt  of  any  person  1  have 
knoivn,  except  his  grandfather,  at  finding  things.     He 


265 

has  often  gone  to  my  desk  for  something  lying  upon  it 
before  his  eyes,  sought  diligently  for  some  minutes,  and 
returned  without  iinding  it.  I  have  accompanied  him 
to  the  same  place,  and  instantly  pointed  it  out  in  the 
very  spot  to  which  I  had  directed  him,  and  where  he 
had  before  sought  it  in  vain.  He  was  remarkably  par- 
siinonious  in  his  personal  expenditure.  I  have  known 
him,  when  a  child,  take  out  six-pence  into  the  fair  ; 
pass  an  hour  there,  looking  at  the  different  stalls  ;  and 
return  with  his  money  entire,  sajang,  ''  1  did  not  like 
to  purchase  toj's,  as  they  would  do  no  good  ;  and  Dl 
thiink  you,  mamma,  to  put  the  money  away  for  me." 
It  must  not  be  inferred  from  this,  that  he  was  niggard- 
ly— his  parsimony,  which  continued  to  the  end  of  life, 
was  wholly  as  it  regarded  himself.  It  was  a  kind  of  con- 
stitutional prudence  ;  which,  however,  he  elevated,  by 
christian  principle,  into  a  moral  duty  :  for  in  writing  to 
me  once  on  the  subject,  he  said,  ''This  is,  in  my  opin- 
ion, necessary  to  usefulness  :  for  economy  is  the  nurse 
of  liberality."  He  cared  not  how  much  his  aunt  or  his 
parents  gave  away  ;  and,  indeed,  rejoiced  in  every  act 
of  their  beneficence.  He  knew  his  dear,  benevolent 
mother's  maxim,  approved  of  it,  and  thanked  God  that 
it  was  not  a  mere  maxim  in  his  family.  She  often  said, 
"  We  have  but  one  child — the  tritle  we  possess  will  be 
his — and  will  it  not  be  Air  more  conducive  to  his  happi- 
ness to  leave  the  prayers  of  the  needy  and  the  blessing 
of  God  on  that  little,  than,  by  our  covetousness,  to  add 
a  few  hundreds  or  thousands  to  the  sum?" — He  alu-ays 
acted   towards  others   honorably  and  liberally^ — but  never 

extravagantly  ;  and   though  he  had  authoritv,  while  at 

22* 


266 

Collew-e,  to  spend  and  draw  for,  what  he  pleased,  he 
never  expended  one  shilling'  on  himself  or  his  own  grat- 
ification, that  was  not  absolutely  necessary. 

His  INTELLECTUAL  CHARACTER  is  Sufficiently  shown  in 
the  extracts  from  his  papers.  But  the  rapidity  of  his 
acquisitions,  the  depth,  compass,  acuteness,  brilliancy, 
and  retentiveness  of  his  mind,  are  almost  inconceivable. 
As  an  instance  of  his  rapidity,  I  will  mention  a  single 
fact.  Fn  consequence  of  having  to  write  an  essay  on  a 
particular  subject,  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  read 
Smith's  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments.  This  work,  which 
consists  of  two  respectable  octavo  volumes,  he  read, 
amidst  his  other  engagements,  in  three  days;  and  so 
read,  as  to  be  complete  master  of  that  author's  views. 
He  wrote  an  admirable  piece,  in  which  Smith's  Theory 
was  considered  :  nor  had  he,  I  believe,  occasion  to  re- 
cur to  that  author  again  in  any  reference  to  his  argu- 
ments. His  mastery  of  Stewart,  Reid,  Locke  and  oth- 
ers, was  equally  rapid  and  complete.  In  metaphysical 
science  he  seems  to  have  resembled  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
in  mathematics  ;  who,  it  is  said,  merely  read  through 
Euclid,  and  perceived  every  demonstration  as  he  passed 
along,  without  the  labor  oC  working  the  problems.  Dr. 
Wardlavv,  who  knew  the  results,  rather  than  the  exact 
processes  of  his  inquiries,  has,  by  his  statement  of  those 
results,  shown  that  his  acquisitions,  though  the  effect  of 
intense  labor,  must  have  been  rapid  :  for,  considerable 
as  were  his  advances  while  at  College,  he  carried  thith- 
er an  immense  share  of  knowledge,  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen years  and  nine  months.  "  Seldom,"  says  he, 
"  Seldom,  if  ever,  have  1  known  a  young  man  possessed 


267 

of  a  richer  combination  of  excellencies.  His  readinsr 
had  been  far  beyond  his  years,  in  kind,  in  variety,  and 
in  extent ;  but  it  had  not  been  beyond  his  understand- 
ing-. It  was  well  remembered,  well  dig^ested,  and  ready 
for  application  to  use.  He  was  distinguished  by  a  gen- 
eral maturity  of  mind,  which  evinced  itself  upon  all  sub- 
jects; by  penetration  and  comprehensiveness  of  thought, 
acuteness  in  reasoning,  dexterity  in  detecting  and  ex- 
posing the  fallacies  and  weak  points  of  an  argument  ; 
by  richness  of  poetic  imagination,  chastened  and  regu- 
lated by  a  correct  and  classical  taste  ;  and  by  an  uncom- 
mon command  of  appropriate  and  elegant  language,  disr 
played  in  his  compositions,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and 
in  the  facility  and  eloquence  of  oral  communication — a 
command  which  was  the  result  of  the  early  and  well 
directed  study  of  the  most  approved  and  standard  wri- 
ters." 

He  had  ever  been  the  companion  of  his  aunt  and 
his  parents ;  entered,  from  his  earliest  years,  into  all 
our  conversations  ;  heard  every  thing  we  read  togeth- 
er;  and  discussed  what  he  pleased.  This — circumstan- 
ced as  we  were — formed  an  essential  part  of  our  plan 
of  education.  He  was,  consequently,  a  keen  disputant, 
though  he  never  lost  his  temper  in  argument.  There 
was  a  considerable  playfulness  of  mind,  even  in  his  most 
serious  reasonings ;  and  a  consciousness  of  intellectual 
strength  made  him  apparently  easy  in  the  most  knotty 
questions  to  which  he  directed  his  attention.  From  the 
thrilling  transactions  of  the  world,  he  was,  almost  ne- 
cessarily. A  WARM  POLITICIAN  at  seveu  ;  and  I  have  known 
him,  at  that  early  age,  burn  with  indignalion,  or  burst 


268 

into  tears,  when  he  thought  the  British  name  bad  been 
dishonored  ;  or  a  state  deiuiquent  sheltered,  by  the  pow- 
er of  party,  from  deserved  punishment.  He  became 
almost  imperceptibly  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  dif- 
ferent governments  ;  and  had,  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or 
fifteen,  well  studied  that  of  his  own  country,  in  De  Lolme, 
Hume,  and  others. 

He  was  endued  with  an  uncommon  share  of  good 
SENSE, — discerning  and  prudent  bej'ond  almost  any  per- 
son 1  ever  knew.  One  interview  with  a  stranger  would 
generally  enable  him  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  the  char- 
acter. /  have  often,  in  such  cases,  asked  his  opinion, 
and  have  never,  that  I  recollect,  found  him  mistaken; 
for  subsequent  acquaintanceship  with  the  individual  has 
confirmed  the  justness  of  his  first  conclusions  respecting 
him.  So  deep  »vas  our  conviction  of  his  prudence,  that 
in  almost  every  thing  of  an  important  nature,  we  con- 
sulted him  from  the  age  of  twelve.  His  reasons — often 
profound,  almost  ever  just — ingeniously  and  forcibly 
stated,  have  frequently  altered  the  determinations  of  my 
whole  family  council ;  and  in  no  single  instance  have 
we  eventually  regretted  that  he  was  suffered  to  influ- 
ence our  decision.  In  some  cases,  1  believe,  we  have 
regretted  that  we  had  not  acted  according  to  his  judg- 
ment. 

His  AFFECTION  towards  his  parents  and  friends  was 
TENDER  AND  ARDENT.  He  Seemed  ever  to  feel  that  he 
lived  for  us.  Nothing  ever  charmed  him  so  much  as  to 
be  about  our  persons,  and  to  minister  to  our  pleasures. 
To   accomplish   this — play,  dearly    as    he    loved   it— 


269    ' 

youthful    companions — every   thing — would   be   aban- 
doned. 

His  DISPOSITION  WAS  REMARKABLY  SWEET — and  in  this, 
as  in  the  powers  of  his  mind,  he  was  the  very  counter- 
part of  his  beloved  mother.  We  went,  from  the  begin- 
ning, upon  the  principle  of  never  teasing  him,  or  of  suf- 
fering him  to  be  teased.  We  had  seen  some  children 
rendered  incurably  pettish,  hy  being  often  thwarted  and 
disappointed,  in  order  to  inure  them  to  disappointment, 
and  to  improve  their  tempers  !  !  The  wisdom  of  such 
a  procedure  we  left  other  parents  to  exemplify  !  Our 
plan  was,  ever  to  keep  him  in  good  humour.  Many 
will  read  this,  who  knew  him  from  his  infancy  to  his 
death ;  and  I  may  fearlessly  state,  before  them,  his 
claims  to  one  of  the  most  lovely  dispositions  they  have 
ever  known.  He  was  three  successive  winters  under 
the  roof  of  Dr  Wardlaw,*  who  says,  "  With  his  high  in- 
tellectual qualities,  there  were  united  an  excellent  nat- 
ural temper,  and  dispositions  singularly  amiable.  Al- 
ways open  and  affable,  he  was  equally  distant  from  the 
extremes  of  levity  and  moroseness.  All  the  while  he 
was  under  my  roof,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  seen  him 
once  out  of  temper.  If  he  ever  was,  he  had  the  good 
sense  and  self-command  to  restrain  its  improper  expres- 
sion. He  was  the  pleasantest  of  inmates: — temp(M-ate, 
regular,  ch:iste,  upright  and  faithful,  ever  ready  to 
oblige,  ever  fearful  of  being  troublesome,  and  thorough- 
ly domestic  in  all  his  habits,  he  was  a  universal  favour- 
ite in  the  family,  with  parents,  and  children,  and  ser- 
vants." 

*  Funeral  Sermon. 


270 

He  HAD    GREAT    DELICACV    OF    SENTIMENT,       Full  of  wit, 

with  a  boundless  cominaod  of  the  ludicrous,  and  even  of 
the  sarcastic,  he  never  made  any  man  feel  its  sting  ex- 
cept for  arrogance,  or  licentiousness,  or  for  both  united. 
On  one  occasion,  to  chastise  for  a  moral  delinquency, 
he  wrote,  and  I  believe,  sent,  anonymously,  to  the  indi- 
vidual t"or  whom  it  was  intended,  a  poem,  which  for  se- 
verity of  expression,  has  seldom  been  surpassed.  I  will 
not  give  a  clue  by  which  that  individual  shall  be  known  ; 
and,  therefore,  this  statement  of  a  fact  can  wound  no 
one.  "With  these  powers  and  capacities,"  says  Dr. 
Wardlaw,  "  he  associated  an  amusing  playfulness  of 
MLND,  which  highly  enjoyed  a  little  facetious  pleasantry, 
and  at  times  sparkled  in  genuine  wit ;  which  occasion- 
ally mdnlged  itself  in  harmless  satire,  and  good-humour- 
ed sophistry,  and  now  and  then  frolicked,  with  the  hap- 
piest effect,  in  {he  jeux  iTesprit  of  sportive  verse." 

He  was  the  frequent  companion  of  many  who  were 
very  much  his  inferiors — yet  in  no  single  instance  in 

HIS  LIFE,  I  BELIEVE,  DID  HE  EVER  INFLICT  A  WOUND,  BY 
MAKING    ANY    OF     THEM     FEEL     THAT     HE     THOUGHT    HIMSELF 

THEIR  SUPERIOR.  He  desccuded  to  all  their  little  chat, 
Iheir  games,  their  gambols,  and  would,  in  an  instant, 
turn  from  the  discussion  of  the  origin  of  evil,  or  of  fate 
and  free  will,  to  the  whipping  of  a  top,  or  the  flying  of 
a  kite.  Towards  all  his  acquaintance,  but  especially 
towards  his  aunt  and  parents,  his  constant  study  was  hoiv 
to  do  the  kindest  things  in  the  most  delicate  manner. 
And  often  have  we  appealfd  to  him  \ov  decision  in  our 
manner  of  doing  things  ;  and  in  no  instance  repented  of 
abiding  by  his  advice. 


271 

His  CHEERFULNESS  vvQS  gfcat  and  almost  uninterrupt- 
ed. Though  endued  with  a  heart  of  considerable  sen- 
sibility, warmed  with  the  most  affectionate  attachments; 
and  possessed  of  an  imagination  teeming  with  the  most 
exquisite  associations  of  poetic  thought  ;  he  had  nothing 
morbid  in  his  constitutional  feelings.  Except  during  his 
first  month  or  two  at  College,  in  1818,  I  never  knew 
him  cast  down  for  a  day.  Even  in  the  loss  of  a  mother, 
whom  he  almost  idolized,  there  was  nothing  beyond  the 
most  manly  and  sacred  grief:  and  he  had  then  sufficient 
energy  and  spirits  to  become  the  supporter  of  his  fath- 
er and  his  aunt.  We  never  had  trifled  with  his  feel- 
ings. We  could  not  endure  the  infliction  of  an  unneces- 
sary pain,  even  in  joke  :  for  we  were  aware  that  good 
tempers  are  sometimes  injured,  and  bad  ones  made 
worse,  by  those  little  vexations  which  either  create  or 
increase  a  feverish  irritability  of  spirits,  that  frequently 
ends  in  deep  and  incurable  gloom.  His  face,  which 
spoke  his  heart,  was  the  very  index  of  content  and  hap- 
piness. 

His  CANDOUR  was  not  the  least  striking  feature  of  his 
character ;  and  his  love  of  truth  was  so  inflexible,  that, 
I  believe  he  never  so  much  as  approached  towards  a 
falsehood  in  his  life.  He  had  not  the  folly  to  throw 
open  his  heart  to  all  men.  He  knew,  from  a  child,  al- 
most all  the  secrets  of  our  family,  nor  did  we,  except 
in  cases  of  peculiar  delicacy,  wish  him  to  be  ignorant 
of  them  :  but  he  never  even  to  his  most  favourite  ser- 
vant, disclosed  a  thought  which  we  could  wish  him  to 
conceal.  He  was  remarkably  reserved  and  cautious  be- 
fore strangers,  and   most   prudentlj'  so,  even  with   his 


272 

more  intimate  acquaintance  ;  but  never  did  his  tongue 
and  heart  disagree.  All  who  knew  him  could  rely  on 
his  perfect  sincerity.  I  have  never  known  an  event  in 
his  history,  which  touched  him  so  tenderly,  as  one 
which  seemed  to  imply  a  doubt  of  his  truth.  On  a  mem- 
orable occasion,  he  had  written  to  a  gentleman,  who 
had  previously  shown  him  much  attention,  and  for  whom 
he  felt  great  respect,  and  almost  a  filial  affection,  disa- 
vowing an  action  charged  upon  him  ;  which,  without 
impeaching  his  integrity,  reflected  on  his  delicacy  and 
prudence.  An  answer  was  returned,  full  of  affection- 
ate expressions,  but  taking  no  notice  of  kis  avowal  of  in,' 
nocence.  He  wrote  to  me  Ln  the  bitterest  anguish,  that, 
by  that  silence,  the  gentleman  should  imply  a  doubt  of 
his  honor.  That  silence  was  probably  a  mere  over- 
sight :  for  his  learned  correspondent  did,  I  am  confident, 
know  him  too  well,  really  to  suspect  the  truth  of  his  as- 
sertion ;  and  certainly  had  too  much  affection  for  him 
to  have  intentionally  inflicted  a  wound  on  a  heart  so 
candid,  so  tender,  so  christian.  But  if  it  were  intention- 
al, his  FRIEND  (for  his  previous  and  sirt)sequent  kindness 
justifies  the  employment  of  the  term)  was  soon  convin- 
ced that  he  had  for  once  mistaken  William's  character; 
for  he  presently  after  treated  him  with  mnrked  and  re- 
spectful attentions,  and  was  among  the  first  to  bear  an 
unsolicited  testimony  to  the  splendor  of  my  son's  talents, 
and  to  the  virtues  of  his  heart. 

Much  as  he  owed  to  the  natural  temper  with  which 
God  had  favoured  him  ;  to  the  eminently  bright  exam- 
ple and  judicious  instructions  of  bis  mother;  as  well  as 
to  the  general  plan  of  his  education  ; — his  morai,  vir- 


273 

TUES,  AND  EVEN  A  LARGE  PORTION  OF  HfS  INTELLECTUAL  EN- 
DOU-MENTS,  ARE  DISTINCTLY  AND  UNEQUIVOCALLY  ASCRIBABLE, 
EITHER  DIRECTLY   OR  INDIRECTLY,  TO  HIS  PERSONAL  RELIGION. 

Christianitj  presented  to  his  mind  an  object  of  constant, 
unparalleled,  inrinite  importance, — roused  his  under- 
standing- to  its  utmost  vigour  of  exertion  ;  awakened 
and  kept  alive  all  the  best  affections  and  holier  tenden- 
cies of  a  renewed  heart; — checked  the  intrusion  of  the 
baser  passions,  ©r  kept  them  from  gaining  a  malignant 
ascendancy  : — taught  him  to  feel  responsible  for  his  tal- 
ents and  advantages,  and,  on  principle,  to  improve  them 
with  a  view  to  future  usefulness  ; — threw  open,  before 
his  ardent  mind,  [)rospect5  more  than  commensurate 
with  his  unusually  extended  views  ; — and,  by  its  displays 
of  redeeming  grace,  through  the  great  Mediator,  made 
him  ever  feel  that  "  God  is  Love."  And,  while  such 
views,  considered  in  all  their  truth  and  importance,  off- 
ered to  his  understanding  excitements,  in  comparison 
with  which  every  branch  of  learning  was  insignificant; 
they  gave  to  his  powers  that  activity,  which  enabled 
him  to  gain  a  comparatively  easy  triumph  over  almost 
all  difficulties,  in  every  department  of  literature  and  sci- 
ence to  which  his  attention  was  directed. 

This  RELIGIOUS  PRINCIPLE  causcd  him  to  do  what  he 
thought  to  be  his  duty,  how  little  soever  his  natural 
temper  and  taste  inclined  him  to  the  performance.  His 
favourite  studies  were,  the  classics  ;  history,  especially 
as  exhibiting  the  effects  of  different  political  constitu- 
tions;  and  MENTAL  PHILOSOPHY,  in  all  its  branches ;  but 
he  knew  tiiat  mathematics,  which  he  detested,  ought  to 
be  studied,  and  he  set  himself  to  the  task,  with  a  deter- 


274 

mination  to  excel.  He  saj's  in  a  letter  written  during 
his  first  session,  and  when  about  sixteen,  "  I  have  plen- 
ty of  work  cut  out  for  the  vacation — Algebra  and  Ge- 
ometry, both  of  which  I  hale  ;  but  I  have  long  learned 
to  conquer  likings  and  dislikings  of  this  kind — two  or 
three  vacation  exercises,  I  hope,  besides  reading  the 
classics,  and  following  out  a  course  of  study  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  Logic  class. — I  am  in  great  hopes  that  we 
shall  have  some  laborious  vacation  exercises.  There 
are  only  the  mathematics  1  dread.  I  am  sure  my  skull 
has  not  that  bump  ;  or  bumps  are  deceitful."  If  he 
gained  no  particular  distinction,  he  lost  no  part  of  his 
fame,  with  the  mathematical  class  of  last  winter;  and  I 
have,  it  will  have  been  seen,  the  authority  of  Dr  Mei- 
kleham,  who  was  to  have  conducted  him  through  the 
higher  branches  of  that  science,  in  its  application  to 
natural  philosophy,  for  saying,  that  William's  commenc- 
ing Essay  in  his  class  gave  him  promise  of  the  highest 
honors.  He  acted  from  a  sense  of  duty  in  this,  as  in 
other  things  ;  and  as  that  sense  of  duty  sprung  from  his 
christian  principles,  and  was  strengthened  by  them  ;  it 
cannot  be  denied,  that  religion  contributed  materially 
to  form  even  his  menial  character.  And  how  it  affected 
his  moral  feelings,  and  his  conduct  in  life,  can  be  con- 
jectured only  by  those  who  have  themselves  enjoyed — 
and,  in  an  extensive  circle  of  christian  acquaintance, 
have  seen — the  full  operation  of  divine  principles.  Re- 
ligion cheered  his  soul  in  all  its  sorrows,  and  enabled 
him  to  "  comfort  us  with  the  same  comfort  wherewith 
he  himself  was  comforted  of  God."  Oh!  how  eloquent- 
ly, sweetly  and  evangelicnlly,  has  he  dwelt  with  me,  in 


275 

our  walks  and  rides,  on  some  strikingly  original  thoughts 
on  the  blessedness  of  the  righteous  both  on  earth  and 
in  heaven, — espcjcialiy  in  reference  to  one  who  was 
ever  present  to  our  iii'.r.gination, — thoughts,  which  re- 
freshed my  soul  with  views  of  glory  ;  which  then 
charmed,  now  cheer  me,  and  must  ever  dwell  in  my 
memory  ! 

The   scriptures  te.ach   us   to   ascribe   every  thins 

GOOD    IN    MAN    TO     THE     INFLUENCE     OF    THE    DIVINE    GRACE. 

"  It  is  God  that  worketh  in  us  to  niil  and  to  do."  This, 
so  far  from  superseding  the  necessity  of  means,  al- 
ways supposes  their  existence.  On  miraculous  com- 
munications, neither  revelation  nor  fact  warrants  us  to 
calculate,  in  the  ordinary  government  of  the  world,  or 
in  the  sanctification  of  the  heart.  Under  this  impres- 
sion, his  parents  conscientiously  employed  every  meth- 
od which  appeared  to  them  most  calculated  to  inform 
his  mind  on  religious  subjects,  and  especially  to  impress 
it  with  awful  and  cheering  views  of  the  divine  charac- 
ter. In  our  representations  of  infinite  benevolence — 
splendid  proofs  of  which  were  ever  shining  around  us, 
and  shining  pre-eminently  in  the  gospel, — we  never 
dared  to  hide  from  him  the  irreconcileableness  of  sia 
with  the  divine  nature  ;  and  the  impossibility  of  ever 
enjoying  the  presence  of  God,  without  that  purity  of 
heart,  which  the  Holy  Spirit  produces  ;  and  which  it  is 
equally  our  duty  and  our  privilege  to  implore  from 
Heaven.  This  preserved  him  from  the  flippant,  un- 
manly, unthinking  and  irreverent  practice  of  those,  who 
take   their  stand  on  a  benevolence   imperfectly  under- 


276 

stood,  and  thence  argue, — in  opposition  equally  to  all 
fair  analogy,  and  unequivocal  declarations  ol"  holy  writ, 
— that  there  can  be  no  future  punishment,  or  no  such 
punishment  as  the  scripture  threatens; — and  who,  amidst 
their  fancied  demonstrations,  laugh  at  its  alarming  rep- 
resentations, as  the  bugbear  of  the  nursery,  or  the  in- 
Tention  of  mercenary  priests  and  gloomy  fanatics.  He 
never  spoke  of  the  God  of  love,  but  in  terms  of  pro- 
found reverence;  and  never  could  contemplate  that 
love  apart  from  those  other  equally  essential  perfec- 
tions of  the  divine  character,  at  which  a  wise  and 
thoughtful  man  must  tremble.  "  For  our  God  is  a  con- 
suming fire."  This  view,  without  throwing  a  particle 
of  gloom  into  his  religion,  rendered  it  deeply  serious. 

It  will  not  be  denied  thai,  under  God,  he  may  have 
owed  a  large  portion  of  his  religion  to  early  domestic 
instruction.  And,  unless  we  are  to  suppose  that,  on  re- 
ligious subjects,  every  man  is  to  gain  his  knowledge  by 
intuition,  or  by  a  miraculous  inspiration  from  heaven, 
what  can  be  more  reasonable,  than  to  expect  that  edu- 
cation, in  this,  as  in  other  departments,  should  be  the 
great  means  of  illuminating  and  informing  the  mind? 
Were  any  man  disposed  to  ascribe  every  thing  truly  vir- 
tuous and  christian  in  the  human  character,  to  educa- 
tion, exclusive  of  a  heavenly,  however  undetiuable,  in- 
fluence; he  is,  if  a  professed  believer  in  revelation,  re- 
ferred at  once  to  the  inspired  record  ;  or,  if  not  a  be- 
liever, to  the  evidence  of  facts.  Or,  should  a  man  ob- 
ject to  the  reasonableness  of  religion,  from  the  circum- 
stance, that  it  may  be  so  greally  and  so  generally  as- 
cribed to  the.   instrumentality  of  early  teacliers,  and   to 


^  277 

the  formation  of  early  associations  and  habits,*  I  would 

*  For  the  sake  of  my  youthful  readers,  1  will  transcribe,  and 
recommend  to  their  serious  attention,  the  close  of  an  essat  on 
HABIT,  written  by  William,  when  in  the  moral  Philosophy  class. 
"  All  these  curious  questions,  however,  sink  into  comparative  un- 
importance, when  we  (urn  our  eyes  to  the  actual  results,  which 
arise  from  the  operation  of  habit,  whatever  may  be  its  exact  na- 
ture. What  is  the  wretch,  sinking  under  the  consequences  of  vi- 
cious gratification — diseased  in  body,  but  more  diseased  in  mind — 
frequenting,  with  unwearied  diligence,  the  haunts  of  dissipation,  al- 
though his  pursuit  of  pleasure  end  only  in  the  bitterness  of  disap- 
pointment, or  the  loathing  of  disgust  ;  and,  with  sedulous  assidui- 
ty, endeavouring  to  secure  those  luxuries,  the  presence  of  which 
can  no  longer  prevent  uneasiness,  although  their  absence  would 
excite  emotions  nearly  allied  to  agony  ?  What  is  the  old  man, 
who,  fondly  and  weakly  clinging  to  a  world  he  must  so  soon  quit 
for  ever — who,  averting  his  eye  from  that  unseen  futurity,  to  which 
the  voice  of  his  God  is  about  to  summon  him — and  who,  looking 
back,  not  with  repentance,  but  with  regret,  on  those  vices  in 
which  he  is  still  disposed,  but  not  still  able,  to  indulge — drags 
into  scenes  of  gaiety,  for  which  the  infirmities  of  age  have  totally 
unfitted  him,  a  body  worn  down  by  disease,  and  impressed  (so  to 
speak)  with  the  signet  of  death  ; — and  thus  vainly  endeavours,  by 
engaging  in  a  round  of  what  would  once  have  been  pleasures,  to 
forget  the  grave  that  awaits  hira,  and  the  tribunal  at  which  he 
must  so  shortly  appear?  What  are  these  wretched  characters 
but  fearful  examples  of  the  unconquerable  force  of  habit  ? 

"  And  what  is  he,  Vv'ho,  after  having,  in  the  strength  of  heav- 
enly principle,  resisted  temptation,  whether  presented  in  the  form 
ef  sarcastic  severity,  and  acute  ridicule,  and  violent  opposition  ; 
or  under  the  more  alluring  aspect  of  friendly  invita'.ion,  and  hear- 
ty conviviality,  and  fascinating  amusement,  and  seductive  pleas- 
ure— who,  after  having  led  a  lile  of  the  most  exalt,ed  virtue,  and 
the  most  unimpeachable  integrity — and  who,  after  having  practis- 
ed the  strictest  morality,  till  his  perseverance  has  reduced  to  ccm- 
23* 


278 

refer  him  to  a  work,  with  which  my  dear  son  was  in  his 
last  year  most  intimately  acquainted  ;*  and  to  which,  it 
will  have  heen  seen,  his  letters  refer,  in  terms  of  high, 
if  not  unqualilied  admiration: — when  the  objecter  shall 
have  refuted  that  book,  we  pledge  ourselves  to  meet 
him  on  some  other  ground. 

But  great  as  was  the  influence  of  his  education,  and 
of  the  lovely  associations  of  infancy  and  boyhood,  he 
v/AS  NO  BELIEVER  ON  TRUST.f  He  examined  and  thought 
for  himself;  and  though  this  has  been  referred  to  in  an 
early  part  of  his  history,  I  must  here  repeat,  that  "his 
religion  was  inost  rational :  he  had  examined,  by  the 
most  rigid  processes  of  inquiry,  every  step  of  his  way 
to  the  firm  conviction  that  "  holy  men  of  God  spake  as 
they  were  moved  by  the  Holy  Ghost."  And  such  was 
the   firmnesj  of  that  conviction ;  such  his  perfect  ac- 

parative  power!es?nes8  the  attractions  of  vice — is  about  to  leave 
a  world,  where  he  has  little  to  regret,  although  much  to  enjoy— 
a  world,  where,  aniona;  many  avoidahle  and  some  inevitable  evils, 
he  Set's,  every  heie  and  there,  the  blessed  etfects  of  his  own  be- 
nevolent exertions — a  world,  oi"  which  he  was,  in  life's  meridian, 
the  blessing  ;  but  on  wliich  his  setting  sun  is  shedding  a  still  softer 
and  purer  radiance  ; — What  is  such  a  man  but  a  fine  example  of 
the  results  which  tiow  from  virluous  habits?" 

*  Bishop  Butler's  Analogy. 

t  He  s.iys,  in  an  essay  on  Superstition,  written  before  he  was 
thirteen,  •'  It  is  not  superstitious  to  receive  religion  with  all  its 
marvels;  but  it  is  superstitious  to  receive  even  religion  without 
exaniinatiou.  This  implicit  belief  in  the  common  religion  be- 
cause it  is  the  common  religion,  has  been  tiie  foundation  of  the 
temples  of  Venus  and  Bacchus  ;  it  has  supported  the  papal  throne, 
as  well  as  the  ridiculous  doctrines  of  the  Koran." 


279 

qiiaintance  with  objections,  and  his  mastery  of  the  ivhole 
arg-iiment ;  and  such  his  acuteness  in  discovering  the 
fallacy  of  the  most  specious  reasonings  ;  that  I  would, 
without  a  moment's  dread  of  consequences,  have  risked 
him  at  fifteen,  with  the  most  ingenious  infidel  in  Europe. 
This  state  of  mind  too  was  the  result  of  education — yet 
of  an  education,  which  never  blinked  the  difficulties  at- 
tendant on  the  inquiry;  but  met  them,  in  the  confideiice 
of  the  easy  triumph  which  an  honest  regard  to  truth 
ensured. 

Satisfied  with  its  evidences,  but  not  content  to  know 
that  it  came  from  God,  he   searched   the  scripture  as 
lor  "  hidden  treasure."     His  opinions   in    religion  were 
what  are  ordinarily  termed  evangelical — he  wasDECiDED- 
Lv  EVANGELICAL.     Oo  that   protouod  subject,  which  has, 
in   some   of  its  modifications,  divided   the  world   in   all 
ages  and   countries,  but  on  which  the    humbly  wise  and 
good  will   agree  to  differ — a  subject  on  which  man  wiU 
think,  but  to  the  comprehension   of  which  the  powers 
of  man  are  unequal — on  that  subject,  he  firmly  held  the 
general  opinions   of  moderate   Calvinists,  both   as  best 
agreeing  with  certain   fixed    principles   of  philosophy, 
and  with  the  untortured  language  of  scripture.     He  had 
thought,  and  could   reason  on   this  subject  with   uncom- 
mon  acuteness  ;    and    would   sometimes,   with    perfect 
ease,  involve  a  bold   disputant  on  either  side,  in  the  in- 
explicable diihculties  of  the  question.     He  felt   almost 
a  contempt  for  those  dogmatists  of  any  party,  who  talk 
loosely,  ignorantly   and   confidently  ;  and    pretend   that 
their  opponents  are  either  blind  or  disingenuous.    Know- 
ing the  precise  state  of  the  question,  and  honestly  taking 


280 

his  side,  he  never  hesitated  to  avow  his  opinions,  when 
thev  were  called  for  :  but,  Sf^eing-  ail  tlie  difficulties 
which  met  an  inquirer,  in  either  path,  he  considered 
the  adoption  of  a  class  of  opinions  opposite  to  his  own 
as  retlecting  no  disgrace  upon  either  the  head  or  the 
heart.  And  I  need  not  say  to  those  who  know  me,  that 
— decidedly  Calvinistic  myself, — I  accord  perfectly  with 
his  views.  He  loved  good  men  of  every  name  ;  and 
considered  that  genuine  religion  consisted  in  the  per- 
sonal and  powerful  application  of  truths  held  in  common 
by  all  real  christians^  rather  than  in  the  adoption  of 
those  peculiar  opinions  which  distinguish  any  one  de- 
nomination. 

He  had,  from  an  early  period,  been  accustomed  to 
read  some  of  the  most  serious,  searching,  and  experi- 
mental writers — as  Baxter,  Leighton,  Jeremy  Taylor, 
Saurin,  and  others,  who  lay  open  the  heart,  and  show 
all  the  various  exercises  to  which  it  is  subject  in  the 
christian  life.  These  were  principally  his  Sunday  read- 
ing;  though,  till  after  he  went  to  College,  he  had  not 
much  leisure  ;  having,  from  his  eighth  to  his  sixteenth 
year,  been  generally  employed  in  teaching  a  Sunday 
School  class.  As  narrative,  however,  has  charms,  which 
purely  didactic  performances  do  not  possess,  we  put  into 
his  hands,  and  he  read  through,  Milner's  Church  Histo- 
ry, Middleton's  Biographia  Evangelica,  (a  heavy  work, 
but  containing  much  important  information)  and  Burnet's 
History  of  the  Reformation.  These  put  him  in  posses- 
sion of  the  controversies  between  the  catholics  and  pro- 
testant?!;  while  Neale's  History  of  the  Puritans,  Bogue 
and  Bennet's  History  of  Dissenters,  and  some   other 


281 

ivoi'ks  of  the  kind,  broug-ht  him  acquainted  with  the 
grounds  on  which  our  non-coniorming-  forefathers  gave 
up  their  livings  in  the  establishment,  and  founded  those 
churches,  to  one  of  which  he  hiraselt,  not  less  conscien- 
tiously, than  from  early  habit,  belonged. 

Accurate,  however,  and  extensive  as  were  his  views 
of  divine  truth,  he  knew  very  soon  that  to  rest  in  that 

KNOWLEDGE  WOULD  LEAVE  HIM  AFTER  ALL  DESTITUTE  OF 
THAT  GENUINE    PERSONAL   RELIGION    WITHOUT    WHICH  NO    MAN 

CAN  SEE  GOD.  He  knew  that  Christianity,  if  effectual  to 
salvation,  must  have  a  renovating  iniluence ;  elevating 
the  principles,  and  purifying  the  affections  of  the  soul, 
and  regulating  the  conduct  of  life  :  and  that  which  he 
knew,  I  trust  he  also  felt.  He  did  not,  indeed,  obtrude 
his  feelings,  by  making  his  "  experience'''  the  topic  of 
conversation  ;  and,  under  professions  of  humility,  di- 
recting the  attention  of  mankind  to  himself; — he  did 
not  consider  that  that  state  of  internal  conflict  to  which 
the  soul  is  subject  ;  that  those  varieties  of  feeling  which 
are  peculiar  to  each  individual  ;  those  sacred  emotions 
of  the  heart  which  belong  to  the  soul  itself,  and  are  tit 
only  for  the  eye  of  God,  and  of  the  most  intimate  chris- 
tian friend  ;  should  be  thrown  open  by  christians  them- 
selves to  the  gaze  of  the  world.  He  had  been  taught 
to  think  and  speak  soberly  of  himself;  to  cherish,  as 
the  only  means  of  maintaining  ''  the  life  of  God  in  the 
soul,"  a  spirit  that  would  cultivate  communion  with  God 
in  secret  ;  and  to  display,  in  something  less  equivocal 
than  words  which  a  hypocrite  might  utter,  the  fruits  of 
his  more  retired  exercises, — in  the  avoidance  of  sin,  and 
in  the  performance  of  every  christian  duty.     He  was  not 


282 

only  vexed  to  hear  the  cant  of  hypocrites  ;  but  I  have 
known  him  mere  than  once  deeply  grieved  to  hear 
those,  whom  he  believed  to  be  good  men,  expressing 
themselves  in  a  tone  of  spirituality,  and  of  abstracted- 
ness from  the  world,  beyond  what  he  knew  to  be  consist- 
ent with  their  habitual  temper  and  conduct.  ^Vith  those, 
who  lived  near  to  God,  whose  meekness,  and  gentleness, 
and  goodness  were  exemplary, — whose  hearts  were  ev- 
idently fixed  on  things  above — he  could  sit  with  pleas- 
ure, "  from  early  dawn  to  devvy  eve,"  and  hea.r  them  de- 
clare the  things  of  God. 

Dr  Wardlaw*  says,  "  But  high  as  this  character  is 
- — excellent  and  engaging  as  this  portrait  appears — it  is 
not  yet  finished.  It  wants  a  principal  feature.  Or  rath- 
er, I  should  say,  it  wants  that  animating  soul,  that  living 
and  vivifying  principle,  that  '  vital  spark  of  heavenly 
flame,'  which  imparted  to  the  whole  at  once  its  energy 
and  its  loveliness,  its  finest  expression  both  of  attract- 
ive grace,  and  of  commanding  dignity.  I  need  hardly 
say,  that  I  mean  religion.  1  have  no  hesitation  in  add- 
ing this  to  the  intellectual  and  moral  qurlities  that  have 
already  been  enumerated.  Yes  :  the  splendor  of  sci- 
ence was,  in  him,  united  with  the  mild  and  holy  radiance 
of  sincere  piety  ; — not  the  sentimental  piety  of  poetry 
and  romance,  but  the  intelligent  devotion  of  examined 
and  settled  principle.  He  was  a  firm  believer  in  divine 
revelation  :  and  his  was  not  a  mind  that  could  ever  be 
satisfied  with  a  belief,  resting  on  mere  educational  pre- 
judice and  prepossession.  True — he  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.     He  had 

*  Funeral  Sermon. 


283 

seen  religion  under  its  most  invitingf  aspects  ***** 
and    why  should  not  this   have  contributed   to  produce 
the  early  impression,  and  to  settle  the  matured  and  per- 
manent conviction   of  its   reality    and   its  excellence  ? 
Such  manifestations  of  its  influence  form  a  part  of  the 
legitimate  and   conclusive  evidences  of  its   truth.     But 
his  convictions  did  not  rest  on  this  ground  alone.     The 
truth  of  the  gospel  was  a  question,  of  which  he  felt  the 
infinite  importance,  and  which  he  was  early  encouraged 
to  examine.     He  gave  all  his  mind,  with  becoming  seri- 
ousness, to  the  inquiry  ;  he  weighed  proofs  ;  he  consid- 
ered  objections ;  he  searched  the  scriptures — for  him- 
self    His   faith  was  thus  founded   in  evidence,  and  es- 
tablished by  his  own  experience  of  the  power  of  those 
motives  to  godliness,  which  the  gospel   presents   to  the 
mind.     Amidst  the  temptations  of  youth,  and  especially 
the   fascinating  seductions  of  '  the   honor   that  cometh 
from  men,'  he  maintained  a  steady  and  dignified  consist- 
ency ;  he  was  capable,  I  am  well   persuaded,  of  no  un- 
worthy compromise,  of  no  timid  sacrifice  of  principle, 
no  self-interested  or   unmanly  acquiescence  in  what  he 
conceived   to  be  erroneous   in   sentiment,  or  vicious  in 
conduct.     He   did   not   obtrude   his  principles,    but   he 
never  shrunk   from   their  avowal.     Those  who   knew 
him  best,  his   associates  and   competitors   in   study,  will 
bear  me  witness,  that  he  had  nothing  about  him  of  the 
cant  of  religion.     He  made  no  high  and  forward  preten- 
sions; no  effort  to  appear   more  than   he  actually  was. 
He  was  serious   on  serious  subject*,  and  would   never 
bear  to   hear   them   treated  with   levity.     But   he  was 
cheerful  and  open  as  the  day.     He  entered,  with  a  char- 


284 

acteristic  vivacit}^,  into  every  thing  connected  with  the 
business  either  of  his  class,  or  of  the  University.  What- 
ever approached  to  hypocritical  affectation  or  disingen- 
uousness,  he  held  in  unqualitied  abhorrence  ;  and  on  no 
subject  was  his  abhorrence  more  indignant,  than  on  the 
subject  of  religion,  of  which  humble  sincerity  is  the  first 
and' most  essential  attribute." 

His  genuine  piety,  his  paramount  regard  to  evangel- 
ical truth,  made  him  one  of  the  most  candid  of  hearers, 
whether  in  private  or  in  the  house  of  Cod.  He  has  of- 
ten listened,  with  pleasure  and  profit,  to  men  of  the 
most  humble  talents,  in  whose  statements  he  could  in- 
stantly perceive  a  want  of  critical  accuracy,  or  any  thing 
like  inconsequential  reasoning  :  but  where  the  preach- 
er's manner  was  unaffected,  and  his  aim  obviously  to  do 
good,  he  never  made  more  than  a  passing  remark,  in 
his  kindest  manner — and  that  in-as  kind^  indeed — rejoic- 
ing in  the  hope  that  good  would  be  done  by  the  exhi- 
bition of  truth,  on  the  whole,  so  just  and  so  simple. 
Though  he  ardently  loved  those  discourses  which  called 
his  faculties  into  full  a.ction;-he  approved  of  none,  hovr 
elaborate,  profound,  or  eloquent  soever,  which  did  not 
show  to  man,  his  ruin  as  a  sinner,  and  display  the  glo- 
ries of  Christ  as  the  only  and  all-sufficient  Saviour.  He 
knew  that  there  was  no  legitimate  topic  of  pulpit  dis- 
cussion which  would  not  fairlj-  admit  the  introduction  of 
those  cardinal  truths  of  Christianity  ;  and  he  felt  that  ig- 
norant and  dying  men  were  not  treated  kindly  or  justly, 
if  the  preacher  did  not  at  once  fairly  expose  to  them 
their  danger,  and  direct  them  to  the  evangelical  reme- 
dy.    Of  all  preachers  living,  he  admired  and  loved  no 


285 

one  more  than  Dr  Wardlavv,  whose  evangelical  style  of 
preaching  is  well  known,  but  whose  delicacy  I  will  not 
offend  by  saying,  while  he  lives,  all  that  my  dear  son 
thought  of  him,  as  a  philosopher,  a  christian,  and  a  min- 
ister of  religion. 

This  imperfect  sketch  of  my  dear  son's  character  is 
recommended  to  the  notice  and  general  imitation  of  my 
youthful  readers.  They  have  already  seen  how  Reli- 
gion guided  him  in  life  :  they  will  presently  perceive 
what  a  calmness  it  gave  to  the  hours  that  immediately 
preceded  his  death.  Were  I  to  address  them  from  his 
grave,  I  could  find  no  language  so  expressive  of  my  own 
views, — none  so  much  calculated  to  impress  their  minds, 
as  that  of  Dr  Wardlaw,  in  the  beautiful  and  impressive 
sermon,  to  which  such  frequent  references  have  been 
already  m.ade. 

"  '•  Rejoice,  O  young  man,  in  thy  youth,  and  let  thy 
heart  cheer  thee  in  the  days  of  thy  youth  ;  and  walk  in 
the  ways  of  thy  heart,  and  in  the  sight  of  thine  eyes; — 
but  know  thou,  that  for  all  these  things  God  will  bring 
thee  into  judgment.  Wherefore,  remove  sorrow  from 
thy  heart,  and  put  away  evil  from  thy  flesh  ;  for  child- 
hood and  youth  are  vanity.  Remember  now  thy  Crea- 
tor in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  while  the  evil  days  come 
not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  thou  shalt  say,  I 
have  no  pleasure  in  them.' 

"  There  are  present,  I  presume,  not  a  few^  \vho 
are  pursuing  the  same  course  of  study  which  our  fi'iend 
has  so  suddenly  and  prematurely  closed  ;  and  some,  it 
may  be,  of  his  intimate  associates  in  that  useful  and  hon- 
orable career — who  admired  his  talents,  who  esteemed 

24 


286       ' 

his  virtues,  who  enjoyed  his  society,  who  valued  his 
friendship, — and  who  now,  in  heaviness  of  spirit,  miss 
him  in  the  class-room,  in  the  private  walk,  in  the  friend- 
ly party,  and  in  the  social  discussions  of  philosophy  and 
literature  : — '  the  place  that  knew  him  knowing  him  no 
more.' — To  such  let  me  say — Emulate  his  ardour  in 
the  acquisition  of  knowledge  :  imitate  his  constant  at- 
tention to  his  studies,  his  industry  and  perseverance,  his 
honour  and  openness  and  candour,  his  good  humour  and 
kindness.  But  above  all,  allow  me,  with  affectionate 
earnestness,  to  beseech  you, — follow  him  in  his  piety. 
You  admired  his  talents  :  let  his  talents  recommend  the 
principles  of  his  character.  Let  his  learning  bespeak 
a  favourable  regard  to  his  religion.  Let  the  sentiments 
which  he  entertained  be  counted  worthy  of  your  seri- 
ous examination.  Treat  not  with  contempt  or  indiffer- 
ence what  he  held  in  high  estimation.  And  let  his  tes- 
timony to  the  religion  of  the  gospel  come  to  your  minds 
and  hearts,  with  the  solemn  interest  which  ought  to  ac- 
company the  counsel  of  a  dying  friend. 

"  O  recollect,  from  whom  you  have  derived  your 
powers,  and  by  whom  they  are  maintained  in  exercise  ! 
Remember  that  He  who  gave  and  who  continues  them, 
can,  in  a  moment,  by  a  single  paralyzing  touch,  reduce 
them  to  utter  impotence,  and  turn  the  thrillings  of  ad- 
miration, in  the  bosoms  of  all  that  know  and  love  you, 
into  the  meltings  of  pity.  Forget  not,  that  the  posses- 
sion of  superior  powers  and  superior  attainments  involves 
in  it  a  corresponding  obligation  and  responsibility.  Be 
not  ye  guilty  of  the  ingratitude  and  infatuation  of  pros- 
tituting and  alienating  them  from  their  Author,  and  from 


287 

the  high  purposes  for  which  he  has  conferred  them. 
Whatever  may  be  the  profession  you  choose  for  the 
occupation  of  your  future  Hfe,  whilst  you  sedulously 
apply  your  faculties  to  the  fulfilment  of  its  duties, 
O  be  not  unmindful  of  the  claims,  the  high,  the  para- 
mount claims  of  him  who  gave  you  being, — who  consti- 
tuted your  minds  what  they  are,  and  gave  you  your  op- 
portunities for  their  improvement.  Let  all  be  sanctified 
by  piety  ;  all  consecrated  to  God  at  the  foot  of  the 
CROSS ;  all  cordially  inscribed  with  "  Holiness  unto  the 
Lord.' — Let  God  himself  be  the  object  that  supremely 
engages  the  powers  of  your  understandings  and  the  af- 
fections of  your  hearts.  Forget  not  the  Creator,  whilst 
you  explore  his  works.  Let  the  philosophy  both  of 
mind  and  matter  draw  your  souls,  in  devout  adoration, 
to  the  Fountain  of  all  existence. 

"  O  beware  of  that  strangest  and  falsest  of  all  the 
associations  of  thought  that  have  ever  been  formed  in 
the  human  mind, —  the  association  of  piety  with  weakness. 
— Whatever  is  excellent  and  honourable  you  have  been 
accustomed,  and  not  without  reason,  to  connect  with 
eminence  in  mental  qualifications,  and  with  high  attain- 
ments in  useful  learning: — nor  would  !  quench,  or  even 
damp,  I  would  rather  stimulate  your  ardor.  But  why, 
O  why  is  it  that  with  piety  should  so  frequently  be  as- 
sociated the  impression  of  imbecility,  and  a  secret  con- 
sciousness of  shame  and  fear  of  avowal  ?  There  is  a 
high-minded  spirit  of  independence,  that  is,  alas  !  too 
captivating  to  the  youthful  heart,  and  tempts  it  to  throw 
off  the  restraints  of  religion,  to  disengage  itself  from 
vulgar  shackles. — the  shackles  of  weak  and  ordinarv 


288 

minds.  But  was  ever  conception  more  false  I  Was 
ever  association  of  ideas  more  presumptuous  ?  Was 
ever  independence  of  spirit  more  miserably  mis-named  ? 
Was  ever  feeling- of  shame  more  mis-placed  and  ground- 
Jess  ?  Was  ever  shrinking  timidity  more  basely  dishon- 
ourable ? — Piety  weakness  !  O  what  must  the  intinite 
God,  the  great  object  of  all  the  sentiments  and  affections 
and  services  of  piety, — what  must  He  think  of  such  a 
connexion  of  ideas  as  this  ! — Piety  weakness  !  It  is  the 
purest  excellence,  and  the  sublimest  elevation, — the  fe- 
licity alike  and  the  glory  of  the  most  exalted  of  created 
natures.  O,  there  is  no  illusion  of  the  youthful  mind, 
no  one  of  the  many  spells  by  which  it  is  fascinated  and 
bewildered,  that  I  should  be  more  earnestly  solicitous 
to  break  and  to  dissipate  than  this.  Away  with  it  from 
your  minds  !  It  is  unworthy  of  a  place  in  the  bosom  of 
any  rational  being.  Let  the  example  that  is  before  you 
this  evening  contribute  to  satisfy  you,  that  true  religion, 
whilst  it  may,  (blessed  be  God  !)  be  the  happy  inmate 
of  the  weakest  mind,  does,  at  the  same  time,  ennoble 
the  loftiest  and  most  powerful  ; — that  though  it  can 
dwell  in  the  most  limited,  it  can  fill  the  amplitude  of  the 
most  capacious." 


His  views,  and  his  experience  of  the  gospel,  so  hap- 
pily calculated  to  accompany  and  guide  him  in  all  his 
path  through  life,  and  to  comfort  bin)  amidst  its  inevita- 
ble trials; — did  not  fail  to  support  him  in  the  hour  of 
his  dissolution.     That  hour  is  past.     And  my  hand  al- 


289 

most  refuses — my  full  heart  and  my  weeping-  eyes,  will 
scarcely  permit  my  hand — to  do  its  office — in  detailing 
the  circumstances  just  preceding,  and  immediately  con- 
nected with,  that  awful  and  overwhelming  event.*  *  * 

When  he  left  us  in  October  last,  his  aunt  was  in  no 
more  than  her  usual  state  of  weakness.  1  apprehended 
that  she  could  not  live  through  the  winter  :  she  felt  an 
assurance  of  dying.  But  as  both  were  unwilling  to  deep- 
en the  gloom  which  such  a  prospect  produced,  neither 
of  us  mentioned  to  the  other  the  suspicion  entertained  ; 
fondly  hoping  that  each  was  ignorant  of  the  danger 
which  the  other  perceived.  I  found,  after  her  death, 
that  she  had  mentioned  to  a  young  friend  her  approach- 
ing end,  but  said,  "  I  know  how  much  my  beloved 
brother  and  nephew  will  feel  it,  and  I  will  not  distress 
them  by  expressing  my  opinion  on  the  subject."  Once, 
about  six  weeks  before  his  departure,  1  tenderly  hinted 
to  my  beloved  child  the  fears  I  entertained.  He  felt 
the  suggestion  most  exquisitely  ;  and  in  a  manner  more 
hurried  than  I  had  ever  witnessed,  he  said,  "  Oh  ! 
don't,  my  dear  father  !  don't  indulge  such  apprehen- 
sions !  She  has  been  weaker  than  she  is  now,  and  has 
recovered."  This,  I  have  reason  to  think,  was  said  to 
cheer  me  ; — was,  at  best,  the  expression  of  his  wishes, 
rather  than  of  his  hopes.  I  never  distressed  him,  by 
another  reference  to  an  event  of  whose  rapid  approach 
I  felt  a  fixed  assurance  ;  but  on  which  neither  of  us 
could  dare  to  converse.  On  the  morning  that  he  left 
us,  we  tenderly  embraced,  and  contrived  to  smile.  My 
eye  followed  him  till  the  coach  vanished  from  my  sight. 

My  heart  felt  an  unusual  burden  :  for  though  I  enjoyed 
24* 


290 

the  prospect  of  his  return  in  the  spring-,  there  was  a 
feebleness  in  the  expectation  for  which  I  could  not  ac- 
count ;  and  a  natural  dread  that,  on  returning-,  he  would 
iind  no  kind  aunt  to  welcome  and  embrace  him  with  me. 
He  arrived  safely  at  Glasgow ;  and  a  letter,  affording 
unspeakable  delight,  announced  that  event  lo  us  on  the 
first  Sabbath  of  November.  This,  with  the  blest  enjoy- 
ments of  that  holy  day,  produced  in  my  mind  a  state  of 
happiness  which  I  never  expect  to  find  surpassed  till  I 
arrive  in  heaven.  Was  it  graciously  afforded,  to  for- 
tify me  for  the  scenes  through  which  I  had  so  soon  to 
pass? 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  after  his  departure,  my  be- 
loved sister  was  seized  with  pains  in  her  head,  unusual- 
ly violent,  which,  proving  to  arise  from  hydrocephalus, 
terminated  her  life  in  less  than  a  week.  She  was  the 
sixth  of  our  dear  friends  and  relations  who  had  died  in 
a  little  more  than  twelve  months.  Left  alone  by  her 
death,  I  felt  inconceivably  desolate  ;  and,  while  I  was 
receiving  congratulations  on  her  removal  from  this  scene 
of  constant  suffering  to  a  state  of  perfect  bliss,  my  heart 
-was — perhaps,  selfishly- — mourning  that  I  had  now  no 
domestic  companion  that  could  weep  or  rejoice  with 
me,  no  dear  object  on  whom  I  could  expend  my  sympa- 
thy and  attention.  But  I  had  yet  a  son,  on  whose  con- 
tinued life  I  might  fairly  calculate ;  and  from  whom  I 
might  expect  all  the  gratification  that  talents,  industry, 
affection,  and  christian  worth  could  affor-d. 

Here  let  me,  for  one  moment,  pause,  to  weep  over 
the  remains  of  a  sister,  whom,  with  only  two  exceptions, 
1  loved,  for  twenty  years,  more  dearly  than  any  other 


291 

human  being.  She  was  one  of  the  very  best  persons  I 
ever  knew;  and  I  bless  God,  that  with  no  small  share 
of  the  imperfections  of  our  common  nature  about  me^  I 
yet  contributed  largely  to  her  happiness  for  nearly  the 
latter  half  of  her  life.  I  will  here  take  the  liberty  of  ex- 
tracting from  a  periodical  religious  journal  a  part  of  her 
character  tliere  briefly  delineated. — "  Possessed  of  re- 
spectable talents,  highly  cultivated,  and  with  a  heart 
ever  alive  to  the  glory  of  God  and  the  welfare  of  her  fel- 
Jowcreatures,  she  was  admirably  litted  to  concur  with  her 
late  sister  in  forming  and  maintaining  those  benevolent  in- 
stitutions which,  it  is  hoped,  will  long  continue  to  bless  the 
places  of  their  residence.  In  1807,  she  came  with  her 
venerable  mother,  to  reside  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Durant ; 
and  resumed  in  Poole  the  habits  of  activity  by  which 
she  had  been  distinguished  at  Newbury.  Seven  years 
ago,  however,  it  pleased  God  to  visit  her  with  an  illness 
which  continued,  without  a  day's  intermission,  till  her 
death.  Though  her  weakness  was  always  great,  and 
her  pains  were  often  excessive,  she  never  forgot  the 
wants  and  woes  of  others.  Her  personal  exertions 
were  indeed  limited,  but  she  was  still  the  centre  and 
the  soul  of  a  large  circle  of  operations.  She  suggested 
methods  and  supplied  means,  by  which  many  others  be- 
came, in  some  degree,  capable  of  supplying  her  '  lack 
of  service.'  And  it  affords  her  surviving  friends  one  of 
their  richest  consolations,  that,  through  divine  grace, 
she  was  disposed  to  devote  so  large  a  portion  of  her 
time  and  income  to  the  noblest  of  purposes.  In  her 
healthier  days,  she  was  a  diligent  superintendent  and 
teacher  of  the  female  Sunday   School  j  and  more  than 


292 

one  of  her  scholar?,  on  joining  the  church,  ascribed 
their  first  and  best  rehgious  impressions  to  her  serious 
and  affectionate  addresses  when  they  were  under  her 
care.  Yet,  while  almost  prodigal  of  thought,  time, 
health,  and  property,  in  the  service  of  her  fellow-crea- 
tures, she  looked  only  to  the  grace  of  God,  her  Saviour, 
for  acceptance  and  eternal  life.  It  pleased  her  Heav- 
enly Father  to  afford  her,  during  her  long  and  trying 
affliction,  a  calm,  and  even  a  cheerful,  submission  to  his 
will.  In  her  moments  of  exemption  from  extreme  pain 
and  lassitude,  she  was  still  capable  of  enjoying — and  of 
enjoying  intensely — the  company  of  her  endeared  fami- 
ly and  select  christian  friends.  Nor  was  there,  per- 
haps, a  moment  in  which  her  mind  was  suffered  to  en- 
tertain a  serious  doubt  of  her  interest  in  the  blessings  of 
the  gospel.  Her  concluding  struggle,  though  severe, 
was  but  short.  She  was  at  last  confined  to  her  bed, 
only  four  daj'S.  On  the  sabbath  preceding  her  dissolu- 
tion, she  had  the  satisfaction  of  attending,  though  amidst 
weakness  and  pain,  the  communion  of  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per. Her  faculties  remained  unimpaired  to  the  last 
hour;  and  though  the  nature  of  her  disease  prevented 
much  conversation,  yet  what  she  did  say  was  every 
thing  that  affection,  and  a  soul  fitted  for  union  with  the 
spirits  of '  just  men  made  perfect,'  would  dictate.  About 
an  hour  before  her  decease,  she  gently  withdrew  her 
hand  from  that  of  an  affectionate  attendant,  joined  both 
her  own  hands,  as  if  in  the  attitude  of  devotion,  and  calm- 
ly whispered,  '  Precious  Saviour  !  rich  grace  !  glori- 
ous blessings  ."  May  our  life  and  latter  end  be  like 
her's !" 


293 

Deep  as  was  my  sorrow  for  her  death,  and  desolate 
as  I  now  lelt  my  condition  to  be,  there  were,  as  it  re- 
spected her,  many  grounds  ot^consohition,  which,  as  the 
violence  of  my  anguish  subsided,  presented  themselves 
to  my  mind; — and  while  my  understanding  perceived 
their  justness,  my  heart  began  to  feel  their  force.  I 
was  regaining  a  portion  of  my  usual  cheerfulness,  which 
would,  1  dreamed,  have  soon  been  complete,  but  that  I 
thought  of  the  sorrow  of  my  son,  for  whom  I  now  seem- 
ed almost  entirely  to  live;  and  who  would,  I  feared, 
indulge  a  tender,  overwhelming  and  long-continued  grief 
for  his  best  and  dearest  female  friend.  And  though,  in 
general,  I  certainly  looked  forward  to  his  return  next 
spring  with  pain;  yet  I  was  able,  at  some  seasons,  calm- 
ly and  comfortably  to  contemplate  his  stay  under  the 
parental  roof  for  twelve  or  eighteen  months  before  he 
should  actually  enter  an  Inn  of  Court ;  and  had  begun 
to  plan  a  course  of  united  study,  for  that  anticipated 
time. 

It  was  my  anxious  wish  to  break  the  news  to  him 
as  delicately  and  gradually  as  possible.  In  a  former  let- 
ter, it  had  just  been  hinted  that  his  aunt  had  a  very  bad 
pain  in  her  head,  which  prevented  her  writing,  as  usual, 
on  a  part  of  the  sheet.  This,  1  thought,  would  just  suf- 
ficiently awaken  his  fears,  to  prepare  him  for  what 
might  possibly — and  for  what  did,  in  fact — happen.  But 
as  she  was  subject  to  the  head-ache,  he  was  not,  it 
seems,  at  all  alarmed.  In  order  that  the  fatal  intelli- 
gence might  not  come  upon  him  too  abruptly,  I  enclosed 
a  letter  (from  which  the  following  is  an  extract)  for 
him  to  Dr  W^ardlaw,  whose  gentleness  of  nature  is  well 


294 

known ;  and  who  would,  I  was  sure,  do  all  that  even 
parental  tenderness  could  dictate.  William's  keen  eye 
instantly  saw  something  which  led  him  to  anticipate  the 
doctor's  actual  communication;  and  before  his  friend 
could  well  ask  him,  if  he  had  lately  heard  from  his 
father,  he  eagerly,  and  in  evident  anguish,  exclaimed, 
"  Is  my  aunt  dead  ?" 

Sabbath  Morning. 

"  And  now,  my  dearest,  dearest,  only  earthly 
treasure,  I  proceed,  as  sighs  and  tears  will  allow  me, 
to  announce  an  event,  which,  I  felt  persuaded,  at  your 
departure,  it  would  be  the  melancholy  lot  of  some  one 
to  communicate  before  your  return.  As  Dr  Wardlaw 
will  have  prepared  you  for  the  distressing  intelligence, 
1  need  not  keep  you  in  suspense.  Last  night,  about  nine, 
your  best  and  kindest  of  relatives  took  her  tlight  from 
us  to  God.  It  has,  indeed,  been  an  agonizing  week  for 
me  ;  but  the  bitterness  is  past.  I  have  kissed  the  poor 
insensible  clay,  till  I  almost  imagined  she  returned  my 
embrace  :  but  the  illusion  has  vanished  ;  and  I  feel  my- 
self indeed  alone.  Knowing  how  dearly  you  loved  her, 
and  were  beloved — knowing  that  while  she  lived,  you 
were  happy,  my  heart  has  bled  more  for  you  than  even 
for  myself.  O  God  !  grant  that  her  death  may  never 
lead  to  consequences  that  shall  affect  the  happiness  of 
him  for  whom  I  should  be  contented  to  live  in  any  con- 
dition— for  whose  good — dear  as  life  still  is — I  should 
be  contented  to  die  at  a  stake  ! 

"  If,  my  dear,  you  should  ask  why  I  gave  you  no 


295 

more  specific  account  of  her  illness  in  my  letter  of  last 
week,  I  will  candidh'  tell  you,  it  was  to  spare  your  feel- 
ings. She  had  a  head-ache ;  which,  in  its  first  stages, 
resembled  a  complaint  that  some  of  your  friends  had 
had,  and  from  which  they  had  recovered.  It  was,  in- 
deed, alarming  by  the  time  I  sent  off  the  letter;  but 
still  the  indications  were  not  decisive.  I  thought  it  cru- 
el to  distress  your  mind  by  a  thousand  painful  appre- 
hensions, when  she  mighty  perhaps,  by  the  time  my  let- 
ter should  reach  Glasgow,  have  been  as  well  as  usual." 
****H;  ***  ** 

"  It  was  not,  of  course,  prudent  to   talk  very  much 
with  her  ;  but  her  conversation,  whenever  we  did  talk, 
was  cheerful  and  calm,  indicative   of  a  heart  at  peace 
with   God.      She   was  peculiarly  affectionate.     There 
was  one  subject  on  which  I  scarcely  felt  myself  at  lib- 
erty, to  touch  :  I  feared  it  would   be  too  much  for  her; 
yet   I   did  venture,  on   Friday  morning,  to  mention  you. 
I  had  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr  James,  expressing 
his  regret  at  being  from  home  when  you  passed  through 
Birmingham  ;  informing   me   that  Dr  Wardlaw,  whom 
he  saw  in  London,  had  spoken  very  highly  of  you  ;  and, 
at  the   same    time,   saying  some    kind    things   himself 
This  1  mentioned  to  her,  thinking  it  would  gratify.    She 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  swimming  eyes,  with  — "  Dear 
precious  boy  !   Oh  !  hoxso    are  -we    blessed  in   him  /" — You 
may  suppose  I  often  and  affectionately  visited  her.     Yes- 
terday forenoon,  she  seemed  so  remarkably  well,  that  [ 
held  a  (comparatively)  long  conversation  with   her.     I 
never  knew  her  more  collected  ;  never  more  tenderly 
affectionate.     She  then  D]entioned  you  for  the  last  time 


296 

— '•''Oh!  my  beloved   brother!  what   a   treasure   God   has 
given  us  in  that  dear  boy — that  dear  boy — that  dear  boy  /" 

He  felt  her  death  most  keenly  ;  yet  sent  off  the  fol- 
lowing' letter,  in  order  certainly  to  ease  my  mind,  by 
representing  his  own  as  more  calm,  than,  1  fear,  it  real- 
ly was.  He  made  an  effort ;  and,  by  that  effort,  he 
mig-ht  have  wrought  himself  into  the  momentary  state 
of  mind,  which  his  language  so  sweetly  breathes. 

My  dearest  Father, 

Thus  far  had  I  written  before  the  distress- 
ing news  arrived  which  has  produced  a  deep  effect  on 
my  mind.  I  thought  of  burning  what  I  had  written, 
that  I  might  not  trouble  you  with  any  thing  unharmo- 
nious  with  the  general  tone  of  our  feelings.  As  it  is, 
however,  important,  and  I  hope  not  written  in  a  spirit 
which  will  distress  you,  or  of  which  the  dear  deceased 
would  have  disapproved,  I  let  it  stand.  I  weep  for  my 
beloved  aunt  most  sincerely.  I  feel  her  loss  most  deep- 
ly. But  they  are  not  tears  of  bitterness,  or  feelings  of 
hopeless  sorrow.  That  I  might  have  been  more  kind 
and  attentive  I  know  ;*  but  my  conscience   acquits  me 

*  This  no  one  else  knew ;  for  never  did  a  mother  nurse,  with 
more  tenderness,  or  treat  with  more  assiduous  attentions,  an  only 
child,  than  he  did  his  aunt.  His  conduct  towards  her  was  the  ad- 
miration of  all  who  knew  us.  And  as  this,  and  every  other  part 
of  the  Memoir  are  written  for  many  who  are  perfectly  acquainted 
with  us  and  our  domestic  transactions,  it  must,  in  common  can- 
dour, be  supposed,  tliat  I  have  not  ventured  to  de{)ict  scenes  of 
blissful  peace  in  my  family,  or  to  portray  characters,  which  so 
many  have  it  in  their  power — if  the  picture  be  overcharged — to 
pronounce  extravagant. 


297 

of  havingf  generally  preferred  my  own  will  to  her  hap- 
piness ;  and  I  have  the  unspeakable  consolation  of  know- 
ing that  1  was,  on  the  whole,  made  subservient  to  her 
enjoyments.  As  for  herselt',  I  can  feel  no  sympathy, 
except  the  sympathy  of  joy — her  afflictions  exchanged 
for  an  exceeding  weight  of  glory — her  sickness,  for  that 
place  where  there  is  neither  "•  sorrow,  nor  crying,  nor 
any  more  pain" — her  comparatively  inefficient  desires 
after  usefulness,  for  exertion,  itself  happiness  !  It  is 
only  a  selfish  sorrow — a  feeling  that  something  is  lorn 
away,  with  which  every  dearer  association  is  connected 
— and  that  the  last  of  a  family  which  was  distinguished 
for  the  best  of  nobility,  is  now  gone  to  take  possession 
of  that  "house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal  and  on 
high," — beyond  the  ken  of  mortals.  It  is  for  yourself  I 
most  deeply  feel.  The  solitude  of  our  house  must  in- 
deed be  gloomy.  For  the  present  you  must  have  cous- 
in Mary  Anne,  or  somebody  to  stay  with  you.  As  for 
those  more  permanent  family  arrangements  which  the 
late  mournful  event  renders  necessary,  my  feelings  are 
not  at  present  such  as  to  enable  me  to  enter  on  the  top-, 
ic ;  nor  are  you,  probably,  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  my 
communications.  1  shall,  however,  soon  take  an  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  you  my  sentiments.  I  have  the  un- 
speakable happiness  of  perfect  confidence,  I  feel  that  my 
interests  are,  in  your  hands,  perfectly  sufe. 

Ten  thousand  tender  recollections  present  the  im- 
age of  our  beloved  relative  in  so  many  forms  of  mourn- 
ful combination,  that  we  cannot,  perhaps,  unfalteringly 
say,  ••'  Thy  will  be  done."     ^Ve  can,  however,  now  see 

that  all  was  right ;  and  what  we  now  see,  we  shall  soon 

25 


298 

be  able  to  feel.     When  my  dear  and   revered   mother 
was  snatched  away,  it  was  from  the  midst  of  a  life  then 
in  its  meridian,  and  affording,  to  the  very  last,  hopes  of 
future  vigor.     My  dear  aunt,  however, — although  use- 
less she  could  not  be — had  been  for  years   trammelled 
b}'  weakness  and  disease — her  constitution  had  long  ap- 
peared to  be  without  all   power  of  renovation,  and  she 
seemed   to  be   spared  only  to   contribute   to  our  good. 
All  her  weakness,  pain  and  sorrow,  are  now  exchanged 
for  immortal   vigor  and  eternal  joy.     Surely,  then,  she 
has  gained   more — infinitely  more — than  we  have   lost. 
And  although  to  weep  is  unavoidable — to  repine   is   un- 
christian, and  almost  unkind.     My  feelings  on  this  occa- 
sion, are,  indeed,  of  a  peculiar   order, — sorrow  for  our 
loss^  satisfaction  in  her  gain.     We   know  that,  whenever 
a  christian  friend  expires,  an  infiaitely  blessed  exchange 
has  been  made.     But  when  that  friend   has  left  health, 
comfort,  and  the  endearments  of  a  numerous  family  be- 
hind, imagination  cannot  present  a  picture  of  unseen  re- 
alities sufficiently   vivid   to    illumine   the   darker    hues 
which  are  immediately  around  us.     In  the  present  case, 
however,  if  we  can  but  for  a  moment  lay  aside  the  feel- 
ings of  immediate  mourners,  what  is  there    in   her  past, 
to   compare  with   her   present,  enjoyments  ?     She   ap- 
pears to  have  held   fast  hold  of  the  consolations  of  the 
gospel,  when  the  deepest  waters  of  Jordan  were  rolling 
round  her :  but,  oh !  if  her  death  had  been  all  dark  and 
storm V, — her  life  would  have  given   bright  promise  of 
eternal  calm.     She  was  a  woman  of  comparatively  little 
religious  conversation — but  then  her  whole  life  was  one 
bright  commentary  on  the  doctrine  of  the  cross — sober, 


299 

unfeigned  piety.  All  these  things  aggravate  our  loss, 
but  then  they  concur  to  give  a  brighter  indication  of 
her  present  happiness  and  giory.  Oh  !  that  1  may  be 
able  to  imitate  those  who  are  gone  before  me  !  Pray 
for  me,  as  I  know  you  do.  I  hope  to  regulate  my  con- 
duct,— as  they  would  have  me  to  regulate  it — as  vou 
now  would  wish  to  see  it  regulated.  To  this,  however, 
I  am  wholly  inadequate,  without  divine  assistance.  Oh  ! 
may  that  assistance  be  aflorded  !  1  cannot  say  that  your 
last  letter  had  prepared  me  for  this;  although  for  years 
I  have  never  opened  a  letter  without  deeming  that  such 
information  might  be  contained  in  it.  Friends  here  are 
all  kindness. 


Your  affectionate,  and, 

he  hopes,  dutiful  son, 

W.  F.  DURANT. 


"  He  appears  to  have  begun,"  soon  after  this,  and 
"  at  the  time  when  his  own  illness  was  coming  on,  to  com- 
pose a  hymn  on  her  death.  The  tw«  following  verses 
were  found  in  his  desk,  recently  written  on  a  slip  of 
paper.  The  encroachments  of  his  own  disease  prevent- 
ed his  either  re-touching  them,  or  adding  more.  I  give 
them  in  their  first  beautiful  and  touching  simplicity. 
They  show  the  bearing  of  his  mind,  and  might  be  ap- 
propriately  inscribed  on  his  own  early  tomb: — 


300 

Though  to-night  the  seed  be  sown  in  gloom, 
Amid  darkness,  (and)  tears,  and  sorrow, 

It  shall  spring  from  the  tomb,  in  immortal  bloom, 
On  the  bright  and  glorious  morrow. 

The  tears  that  we  shed  o''er  holy  dust 

Are  the  tribute  of  human  sadness ; 
But  the  grave  holds  in  trust  the  remains  of  the  just, 

Till  the  day  of  eternal  gladness."  * 

Before  his  letter  arrived,  I  wrote  to  him  again,  im- 
mediately on  returning  from  the  funeral  of  his  aunt ; 
and  I  venture  to  give  this  epistle — though  hastily  writ- 
ten— both  because  he  wrote  an  imperfect  answer  to  it  ; 
and  as   a  fresh  proof  of  our  mutual  confidence. 

Poole,  Saturday,  Twelve  o'clock. 
My  dearest,  dearest  Treasure, 

I  AM  now,  indeed,  alone — literally  alone— - 
for  your  cousins  and  friends  are  gone  away.  To  say,  I 
am  unhappy^  would  be  wrong ;  for  I  really  am  not  so  ; 
but  I  feel  most  deeply  and  tenderly — and  the  more  so, 
from  having  just  seen  the  coffin  of  your  dear,  dear  moth- 
er. I  have  all  the  consolation,  on  this  occasion,  wliich 
the  most  affectionate  sympathy  of  friends  can  afford — 
and,  I  hope,  even  better  consolation  still.  My  reason 
and  my  christian  principles  have  come  in  to  my  aid  ; 
and  I  see  how  much  mercy  there  has  been,  and  still  is, 
in  the  dispensation.  That  she  was  spared  to  provide 
for  your  last  journey  to  Glasgow  :  and  that  there  was 

*  Funeral  Sermon. 


301 

such  a  temporary  revival  as  to  enable  you  to  go  off  ia 
comfort,  are  blessings  not  to  be  forgotten.  And  now, 
that  I  calmly  look  upon  her  past  sufferings — and  suffer- 
ings whicli  she  must  still  have  endured,  had  she  lived 
— I  cannot  indulge  the  selfishness  of  wishing  her  back. 
Yet,  diseased  as  she  was — full  as  she  was  of  pain  and 
lassitude — she  did  most  materially  contribute  to  our 
comfort.  To  me,  in  your  absence,  she  was  always  an 
interesting  object  connected  with  my  home — and  to  re- 
turn was  always  pleasant  to  me,  as  my  presence  ever 
afforded  pleasure  to  her.  Indeed,  my  dear,  it  is  cause 
of  unfeigned  thankfulness,  that,  through  the  divine  good- 
ness, we  were  enabled  so  greatly  to  alleviaie  her  sor- 
rows, and  to  make  existence, — afflicted  as  she  was — 
still  a  desirable  good  to  her.  After  shedding  our  tears 
over  her,  our  great  business  is,  to  consider  the  right 
improvement  of  the  event.  Could  your  dear  mother 
and  aunt  now  revisit  and  advise,  I  am  sure  they  would 
enjoin  upon  us  increased  circumspection,  devotedness 
and  zeal.  We  have  seen — alas  !  we  have  seen* — their 
distinguished  excellencies.  This  fresh  death  has  pro- 
duced many  an — "  Ah  !  Poole  has  scarcely  ever  seen 
two  such  sisters  !  What  institutions  were  there,  when 
they  came  among  us  ?  And  what  institutions  now  among 
us  did  not  owe  their  origin,  or  a  large  portion  of  their 
eiliciency  to  them?" — This  usefulness  was  not  effected 
ivithout    considerable    pcuniary    sacrifices  :    but   shall 

*  I  alluded  in  (Iiis  (o  flie  Roman  use  of  the  perfect  tense,  as 
"  riarerun/,"  they  have  lived  ; — a  delicate  mode  of  announcing 
the  death  of  their  friends. 

25* 


302 

you  or  I  complain  that  we  have  so  much  less,  iu  conse- 
quence ? 

I  intend  to  preach  to-morrow  morning  and  evening; 
and  in  the  afternoon,  I  have  numerous  baptisms.  My 
friends,  who  can  little  tell  the  real  state  of  my  mind, — 
wish  me  not  to  undertake  so  much ;  but  the  truth  is,  I 
must  be  engaged  ;  I  must  have  an  object  that  will,  of 
necessity,  call  off  my  attention.  I  mean  to  have  no 
spare  time  ;  but  to  do  as  I  did  on  your  dear  mother's 
removal.  This,  while  calculated  to  do  myself  good,  is, 
I  am  convinced,  what  the  dear  departed,  if  they  could 
but  communicate  their  wishes,  would  enjoin  upon  me. 
I  am  the  last  man  to  imagine,  that  the  withdrawment 
of  so  much  excellence  from  my  family  and  my  circle  of 
useful  friends,  should  induce  me  to  slothfulness,  and  to 
the  neglect  of  duties  which  I  ought,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  discharge.  I  trust  your  dear  mother's  re- 
moval neither  diminished  my  wish  to  do  good,  nor  has, 
in  fact,  lessened  my  usefulness.  May  you,  my  dear  Wil- 
liam, become  increasingly  earnest  in  pursuing  *'  the 
mark  of  the  prize  of  your  high  calling  !"  Oh  !  with 
what  different  feelings  should  we  lament  ungodly^ — or 
even  inactive  and  useless  friends  !  May  our  surviving 
friends  have,  at  least,  as  much  relief  at  our  graves,  as 
we  have  had  at  the  graves  of  those  over  whom  we  now 
weep  ! 

When  your  beloved  mother  left  us,  1  instantly  saw 
what  your  aunt  must  feel  in  the  contemplation  of  a  pos- 
sible, and  not  improbable  event.  As  the  feeling  must 
have  been  a  dreadful  aggravation  of  her  loss  in  dear  Re- 
becca, I  hastened,  you  may  recollect,  to  assure  her,  on 


303 

the  next  morning,  that  nolhing  but  death  should  part  us. 
It  was  ever  after  a  consolation  to  me,  that  I  had  given 
her  this  prompt  and  quieting  assurance.  It  is  equally 
impossible  but  that  some  feeling,  not  altogether  dissimi- 
lar, should,  on  the  present  occasion,  arise  in  your  mind. 
Let  this,  my  beloved,  satisfy  you  :  /  will  never  move  in 
any  direction^  raithout  first  consulting  you,  and  never  pro- 
ceed a  step  without  your  concurrence.  You  know  my 
integrity,  and  my  affection  for  you  too  well  to  ask  for 
any  other  pledge  of  my  regard  to  your  happiness.  1 
have  never  found  your  opinion  or  advice  wrong,  on  any 
question  of  prudence;  and  this,  independently  of  my  af- 
fection for  you,  and  my  general  confidence  in  you,  will 
induce  me  to  consult  you  in  every  thing  of  importance. 
Lord  Chatham  wrote  to  his  son  William,  "  I  know,  at 
least,  one  beardless  man  at  College."  And  1  bless  God 
that  1  know  one  man  of  full  understanding  and  consum- 
mate prudence,  under  nineteen,  at  Glasgow.  May  my 
future  conduct  prove  me  worthy  of  such  a  man  for  my 
son  !" 

To  this  letter,  he  had  attempted,  at  the  commence- 
ment of  his  illness,  to  prepare  an  answer.  "  It  was  writ- 
ten at  intervals  under  oppressive  languor,  which,  to  all 
who  know  the  nature  of  his  distemper,  even  in  its  in- 
cipient stages,  will  at  once  account  for  the  absence  of 
that  correct  and  easy  elegance  by  which  his  composi- 
tions were  usually  characterized."  A  letter  from  Dr 
Wardlaw,  shows  why  it  was  not  sent.  As  the  last  thing 
he  ever  wrote,  it  possesses  an  interest  which  parents 
can  in  some  measure,  understand.  It  will  ever  be  pre- 
served  by  me  as  a  precious  relic  •,  though  it  is  written 


304 

with  a  confusedness  and  imperfection  that  renders  it  al- 
most illegible. 


My  dearest,  dearest  Father, 

Every  loss  I  endure  seems,  by  concentrat- 
ing-, to  strengthen  the  affections  ;  and,  as  my  circle 
contracts,  I  fix  myself  more  and  more  on  you.  You 
have  my  entire  confidence  and  gratitude.  My  dear 
aunt  had  my  warmest  affections.  She,  however,  is 
gone ;  and,  we  may  confidently  add,  gone  to  glory. 
Never-ending  felicity  will  now  attend  her.  Neither 
nights  nor  days  of  sorrow,  but  an  eternal  day  of  felicity 
and  glory.  This  is,  indeed,  sufficient  to  dissipate  the 
gloom  of  the  separation,  and  to  obliterate  even  from 
our  minds  those  past  sufferings,  which  have  terminated 
in  an  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory.  Oh  !  may 
we  be  enabled — especially  may  /  be  enabled — for  I 
know  that  you  are  pressing  forward  to  the  heavenly 
gate — may  1  be  enabled  to  walk  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
holy  dead,  and,  not  looking  at  the  things  of  this  life,  to 
press  towards  those  which  are  before,  and  thus  to  make 
my  calling  and  election  sure  !  What  a  blessing  is  it  to 
look  back  on  a  life  spent  entirely  in  the  service  of  God  ! 
Our  dear  friends  have  doubtless  had  the  common  fail- 
ings of  humanity  :  have  needed  the  pardoning  blood  of 
Jesus  ;  and  have  been  saved  by  firm  confidence  in  the 
great  Mediator.  Yet  in  the  whole  course  of  their  Jives, 
they  at  least  sincerely  professed  the  name  of  Jesus. 
We  do  not,  1  believe,  know  a  single  important  action  in 
which  they  have  deviated  from  the  straight  and  narrow 


305 

path.  My  dear  aunt  did  not  possess  the  very  brilliant 
talents  by  which  my  beloved  mother  was  so  highly  dis- 
tinguished. She  had,  however,  sound  and  vigorous 
sense,  and  a  heart  eminently  devoted  to  her  God.  My 
mother  and  yourself  excepted,  there  never  was  a  hu- 
man being  for  whom  I  felt  so  much  tender  atJ'ection  as 
for  her.  She  is  gone,  however,  to  her  rest,  and  I  would 
not  recal  her.  To  weep  is  inevitable  :  but  we  ought 
not  to  weep  as  those  who  are  without  hope.  With  re- 
gard to  your  generous  declaration,  I  have  only  to  say 
that  I  will  never  stand  in  the  way  of  your  happiness, 
which  is  synonymous  with  my  oww." — The  very  last 
sentence  he  wrote  to  me  !  ! — And  ever  shall  1  reflect 
upon  it,  with  that  mournful  pleasure  which  such  a  de- 
claration, from  one  whose  heart  was  all  sincerity,  is  cal- 
culated, in  my  circumstances,  to  inspire  !  Our  ardent 
affection  was  mutual  ;  never  had  been,  and  if  God  had 
spared  him,  never,  I  trust,  would  have  been,  cooled  by 
a  single  suspicion  ! 

There  is  reason  now  to  believe,  that  the  fatal  and 
insidious  disease  which  terminated  his  mortal  existence, 
had  commenced  before  he  left  home.  He  complained, 
I  understand,  of  some  peculiar,  indescribable  sensations 
in  his  head,  during  the  whole  of  his  journey  from  Poole 
to  Birmingham.  They  continued,  it  is  probable,  after- 
wards; but,  as  they  were  unattended  with  pain,  they 
appear  to  have  excited  no  apprehensions  ;  for  he  never 
mentioned  them  to  his  friends  at  Glasgow.  Indeed,  he 
spoke  of  them,  at  Birmingham,  only  in  a  jocular  man- 
ner.    But  the  shock  produced  by  the  intelligence  of  his 


306 

aunt's  death,  gave  a  dreadful   activity  to  the  seeds  of 
his  disorder. 

The  fatal  Tuesday  (November  27)  arrived,  on  which 
I  had  reason  to  expect  my  accustomed  and  cheering* 
communication  from  Scotland.  Once  before — and  only 
once — for  the  three  preceding  winters,  a  letter,  from 
having  been  mis-sent,  had  come  a  day  later  than  usual. 
I  supposed  it  might  have  been  so  at  this  time  ;  for  his 
letter  did  not  come.  Little  could  I  imagine  that  on  that 
very  day  he  left  me  forever !  I  had,  on  that  day,  writ- 
ten in  anticipation  of  hearing  from  him  ;  and  commenc- 
ed by  saying,  "  I  had  expected  to  hear  to-day  from  you. 
Perhaps,  you  misconceived  the  meaning  of  my  request, 
and  wait  to  hear  again  from  me  before  you  write  :  or 
you  may  have  put  your  letter  into  the  office  on  Friday; 
— and,  the  post  not  going  as  rapidly  as  I  imagined,  I 
may  hear  only  by  to-morrow.  *  *  *  Precious  as  a  let- 
ter from  you  would  be,  I  shall  not  distress  myself.  *  *  * 
I  thank  you,  my  love,  for  your  affectionate  and  chris- 
tian letter  on  the  death  of  dear  aunt ;  but,  before  I 
speak  in  reference  to  her,  I  will  just  answer,  once  for 
all,  the  former  part  of  your  epistle.  Had  not  cousin 
John  informed  me  of  your  intention,  1  should  have  been 
surprised  at  its  contents.  I  catmot,  to  this  moment,  ac- 
count for  it.  I  had  deemed  it  so  perfectly  fixed  that  you 
were  to  go  to  the  ba7\  that  I  never  expected  to  exchange 
with  you  a  syllable  more  on  the  subject.  Had  you,  vol- 
untarily, and  on  prmciple,  chosen  the  ministry,  I  should 
have  been  unspeakably  delighted  :  but,  in  default  of 
this,  I  never  contemplated  any  thing  else  than  the  bar. 
I^et  us,  therefore,  consider  this,  as  fixed — reserving,  at 


307 

any  future  time,  the  power  of  choosing  the  other  pro- 
fession, should  you  ever  feel  it  your  duty  to  preach  the 
gospel.  You  cannot  but  know  that  there  is  one  para- 
mount desire  of  my  heart — one  continued,  ardent  prayer 
of  my  soul — that  you  may,  through  life,  maintain  a  con- 
sistent, christian  character  ;  and  that,  after  adorning — 
eminently  adorning — '  the  gospel  of  God  your  Saviour 
in  all  things ;'  we  may  meet,  in  a  better  world  ;  and 
form — with  the  dear  departed  saints,  to  whom  we  owe 
so  much — portions  of  the  whole  family  of  heaven.  I 
mean,  God  willing,  to  enter  you  in  January,  at  an  Inn 
of  Court;  to  which  you  need  not  actually  go  for  a  year 
or  two.  This  will  be  quite  early  enough  ;  for  I  should 
wish  you  to  pursue  your  general  studies  for  some  time 
longer.  Lord  Mansfield  did  not,  I  think,  begin  his  legal 
studies  till  twenty-four  or  twenty-five.  Sir  William 
Jones  even  later.  See — with  all  his  legal  lore  and  acu- 
men— what  a  miserable  figure  poor  Gilford  cut,  by  the 
side  of  his  really  and  generally  learned  antagonists,  on 
the  late  trial  !  You  know  Cicero''s  fine  description  of 
an  orator — and  how  much,  besides  a  knowledge  of  law 
and  legal  antiquities,  he  conceives  necessary  to  com- 
plete one.  1  certainly  wish  you  to  excel — and,  deduct- 
ing the  one  third,  as  you  wish,  I  am  sure  that,  with  all 
the  advantages  you  may  yet  enjoy,  you  have  no  bad 
chance  of  excelling.  I  trust  that  God  will  make  you  a 
blessing  to  the  world.  You  will,  then,  I  am  sure,  be 
as  happy  as  can  be  fairly  expected  in  this  vale  of 
tears." 

I   meant   to   have  added,  in   a   postscript,  whatever 
might  have  been  necessary  in  answer  to  the  letter  which 


308 

I  should — as  I  fondly  expected — receive  from  hira  on 
the  Wednesday.  VVednesda}'  arrived  ;  and,  while  felic- 
itating myself  on  the  prospect  of  a  letter  from  him,  the 
postman  brought  me  the  following  from  Dr  VVardlaw. 
I  was  terrified  at  the  sight  of  his  hand,  and  my  mind — 
unaccustomed  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  still  is,  to  gloomy 
anticipations — instantly  felt,  "  It  is  the  precursor  of  my 
child's  death." 


Glasgow,  November  23,  1821. 

My  very  dear  Sir, 

I  FEEL  exceedingly  that  you  should  have 
suffered  any  measure  of  paternal  anxiety,  which  I  know 
you  must  have  done  for  these  two  days  past.  Your 
justly  dear  and  valued  William,  towards  whom  our  at- 
tachment grows,  the  longer  we  know  him,  has  been  a 
good  deal  unwell  for  these  some  days  past.  He  had 
written  a  letter  nearly  out  the  day  before  yesterday  ; 
which,  however,  having  penned  at  our  dining-room  fire- 
side, I  found,  on  my  coming  home  from  my  brother's 
at  night,  he  had  inadvertently  left  out  on  going  to  bed. 
I  put  it  into  my  drawer;  and,  happening  to  go  out  ear- 
ly nex:t  morning,  and  being  detained  out  by  various  busi- 
nesses, it  was  too  late  for  the  post  of  yesterday,  when  F 
came  home.  Upon  looking  at  it  again  himself,  he  said 
it  was  so  ill  written,  he  would  not  send  it.  To-dny  I 
hoped  he  might  have  been  able  to  write  another.  But 
1  must  be  his  substitute,  as  he  is,  necessarily,  confined 
to  his  bed.     The  doctors, — one  of  whom  saw  him  (he 


309 

night  before  last,  and  who  then  prescribed  a  little  med- 
icine for  his  cold,  and  for  cleansing  his  bowels,  and 
bracing  his  stomach,  and  a  gargle  for  his  throat,  which 
was  not  inllamed,  but  relaxed — have  seen  him  again 
this  morning,  and  have  expressed  a  degree  of  appre- 
hension of  a  tendency  towards  an  affection  of  the  head  ; 
to  check  which,  in  time,  they  have  taken  from  him  a 
considerable  quantity  of  blood,  and  prescribed  a  fresh 
dose  of  aperient  medicine. 

I  am  well  aware  of  the  sensibility  of  a  fathers 
heart,  and  especially  of  the  heart  of  a  father  situated 
as  you  are  towards  such  a  son.  I  have  always,  howev- 
er, held  it  as  my  maxim,  on  which  1  have  ever  wished 
to  be  dealt  with  myself,  that  it  is  best  to  tell  the  precise 
truth  to  friends  at  a  distance.  The  medical  men  give 
me  hopes  that  the  bleeding  and  other  means  mav  prove 
speedily  effectual  in  checking  and  finally  removing  the 
tendency  1  have  mentioned.  They  will  be  back  this 
evening,  and  in  the  morning ;  and  you  may  be  assured, 
that  no  post  shall  pass  without  your  hearing  how  he 
continues.  1  trust  1  shall  be  able  tomorrow  to  relieve 
you  from  the  anxiety  which  I  know  this  letter  must  oc- 
casion ;  and  which  1  most  earnestly  wish  I  could  have 
avoided  giving  you.  Deeply  do  I  regret  the  distance  that 
is  between  him  and  his  fond  father  ;  as  I  know  what  a 
gratification  it  would  be  to  you  to  tend  him,  and  assist 
in  bringing  him  round  to  wonted  health  and  strength. 

You  may  depend   on  his   being   nwsed  with  all   the 

care  and  tenderness  which  real   attachment  to  himself, 

and  parental  sympathy  with  you  can  f)roduce.     He  is  a 

great  favourite  with  us  both  ; — and   my  dear  wife  is  an 

26 


310 

excellent  sick-nurse.     I  have  been  assisting  at  the  tak- 
ing of  the  blood  and  otherwise  ;  and  it  is  Saturday. 

Most  faithfully,  your's, 

Ralph  Wardlaw. 


Great  as  was  my  alarm,  I  resolved  to  wait  the  issue 
of  another  post.  The  following  letter  came,  and  deter- 
mined my  instant  departure.  "  1  am  sorry  I  cannot  re- 
lieve you  from  anxiety.  The  report  of  this  morning 
was, — JVo  better.  The  medical  men  have  been  here 
twice  to-day,  and  will  be  twice  more.  The  symptoms 
are  decidedly  paralytic.  Oh  !  my  dear  Sir,  it  does  pain 
my  heart  to  tell  you  all  this."  I  left  home  with  but  a 
feeble  ray  of  hope  to  irradiate  the  gloom  produced  by 
my  fears;  but  expected  that,  during  the  few  hours  of 
my  stay  in  London,  I  might  get  possession  of  another 
letter  from  Glasgow  on  its  passage  towards  Poole, 
which  would  teach  me  what  1  had  to  expect.  Dr  Ward- 
law,  naturally  calculating  on  my  departure,  had  direct- 
ed for  my  nephew,  and  though  1  saw  that  letter,  and 
could,  almost  at  the  risk  of  being  committed  to  New- 
gate, have  torn  it  from  the  hand  of  the  clerk,  I  was 
obliged  by  the  rigid  laws  of  the  post-oflfice,  to  let  it  pass 
without  the  possibility  of  knowing  its  contents.  This 
greatly  aggravated  my  pains  ;  and  I  proceeded  to  Man- 
chester in  the  unutterable   agonies  of  suspense — but, 


311 

there,  met  the  more  dreadful,  and  all  but  overwhelm- 
ing, confirmation  of  my  most  alarming  apprehensions. 
1  dare  not  even  attempt  a  description  of  my  agony,— 
feeling,  myself  for  the  first  time  completely  destilule  !  I 
bless  God  for  the  preservation  of  my  reason,  which  1  se- 
riously feared  would  sink  under  the  pressure  of  my  ac- 
cumulated sorrows. 

Never,  never  can  I  forget  the  dreadful  journey 
from  Manchester  to  Glasgow — my  feelings  on  approach- 
ing that  city,  and  on  entering  the  house  of  my  invalua- 
ble friends,  Dr  and  Mrs.  Wardlaw.  Parents  themselves, 
and  feeling  all  but  parental  affection  for  my  beloved 
child,  they  bore  with  my  weaknesses,  wept  with  me, 
and  sustained  me — nor  can  I  ever,  while  affection  shall 
find  a  place  in  my  heart,  cease  to  feel  towards  them  all 
that  is  due  to  the  tenderest  and  most  unbounded  kind- 
ness. From  them  I  learned  all  the  melancholy  partic- 
ulars of  the  closing  scenes  ;  but  instead  of  attem[)ting 
to  describe  them  myself,  I  will  extract  the  brief  ac- 
count given  in  Dr  Wardlaw's  Funeral  Sermon,  p.  24 
-^28. 

"  Is  there  not,  to  the  heart  of  an  agonized  parent, 
feeling  the  dreary  blank  made  in  his  society  by  the  ab- 
sence of  such  a  son — is  there  not  consolation,  strong 
consolation,  in  the  thought  that  he  has  seen  the  object 
of  his  love  safe  before  him  F — and  may  not  this  thought 
impart  peace  and  joy  to  his  spirit,  while  he  travels  on- 
ward the  remainder  of  his  pilgrimage  ?  Suppose  he 
had  himself  been  first  called  away — could  he,  think  you, 
notwithstanding  the  delight  infused  into  his  departing 
spirit  by  the  conviction  of  that  son's  faith  and  piety  and 


312 

stability  of  principle — could  he  have  left  him  behind, 
in  a  world  abounding'  with  every  variety  of  temptation, 
without  a  secret  pang  of  apprehension,  without  a  feel- 
ing of  tender  solicitude  about  his  highest  interests  ? — 
But,  by  the  divine  arrangement,  every  thing  of  this 
kind  is  saved  him.  He  can  go  through  life,  with  the 
delightful  impression,  the  calm  and  settled  conviction, 
that  the  son  of  his  heart's  love,  his  dear,  dear  boy,  is 
safe  and  happy.  And  when  he  himself  shall  be  called 
away,  instead  of  having  to  part  from  him,  in  that  sol- 
emn moment,  with  emotions  of  anxious  trepidation,  it 
shall  be  one  of  the  joys  of  his  departure,  that  he  is  go- 
ing to  join  his  company,  and  to  be  with  him  for  ever. 
Thus  he  has  a  new  interest  in  heaven  ;  and,  in  antici- 
pating death,  a  new  object  of  hope  before  him.  Instead 
of  wailing,  in  all  the  bitterness  of  unmingled  and  unmit- 
igated wo,  like  David,  over  a  son  that  had  not  only  died 
— that  had  been  little — but  had  died  in  unnatural  and 
impious  rebellion  against  his  father  and  his  God — '  O 
my  •^on  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  Absalom,  would  God 
I  had  died  for  thee,  O  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son  !' — In- 
stead of  this,  he  can  adopt  the  language  of  the  same 
royal  mourner,  when  his  infant  child,  for  whom  he  had 
fasted  and  prayed  and  wept,  was  taken  from  him — '  I 
shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me." 

"  Our  dear  departed  friend  and  companion  was  not 
one  for  whom  we  sorrow  without  hope.  He  was,  as  I 
have  before  mentioned,  a  firm  believer  of  that  gospel 
by  which  lil'e  and  incorruption  have  been  brought  to 
light;  and  he  felt  and  exemplified  its  sacred  influence. 
After  the  tidings  arrived  of  the  death  of  that  dear  rela- 


313 

tive  who  was  removeJ  so  very  recently  before  him, 
and  who  had  been  to  him  as  a  second  mother,  his  mind 
was  evidently  drawn,  with  a  peculiar  degree  of  inter- 
est and  impression,  to  the  contemplation  of  eternal 
things.  He  conversed,  with  solemn  pleasure,  about 
death  and  heaven.  His  mind  was  serious  and  spiritual. 
It  seems  as  if  her  departure  had  been  purposely  timed 
to  prepare  him  for  his  own ;  and  he  was  in  a  frame  of 
mind  for  dying,  before  the  symptoms  of  approaching 
death  discovered  themselves. 

"  During  his  short  and  rapid  illnes?,  the  difficulty 
and  indistinctness  of  articulation,  which  was  one  of  its 
most  affecting  indications,  rendered  conversation  im- 
practicable. The  testimony,  consequently,  of  his  faith 
and  hope,  was,  of  necessity,  brief  and  limited.  The 
questions  which  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  put  to  him  in  refer- 
ence to  his  prospects  for  a  future  world  when  it  be- 
came too  evident  that  he  was  approaching  its  confines, 
were  unavoidably,  for  the  reason  1  have  mentioned,  so 
framed  as  to  require  no  more  than  a  simple  negative  or 
affirmative  reply.  In  such  circumstances  we  must  be 
satisfied  with  what  we  can  obtain  ;  and  all  who  knew 
the  perfect  ingenuousness  of  his  character  will  attach 
to  his  answers  the  full  credit  of  sincerity. — Standing  by 
his  bed-side,  I  took  him  affectionately  by  the  hand,  and, 
looking  him  in  the  face,  repeated  these  words,  'This 
is  a  faithful  saying,  and  worthy  of  all  acceptation,  that 
Christ  Jesus  came  into  the  world  to  save  sinners  : — You 
believe  this  saying  ?'— I  thought  as  I  began  to  speak, 
there  was  an  attempt  to  restrain  the  nervous  restless- 
ness of  the  arm  of  which  I  held  the  hand,  and  that  his 
2G* 


314 

countenance  assumed  a  gently  pleased  and  interested 
expression  : — '  You  believe  this  saying?'  '  Yes.' — '  And 
it  is  the  ground  of  your  hope  before  God?'  'Yes.' — 
'  Have  you  any  fear  of  dying  ?'  '  No.' — '  I  know  whom 
I  have  believed,  and  am  persuaded  that  he  is  able  to 
keep  that  which  I  have  committed  to  him  against  that 
day: — You  enjoy  this  persuasion,  I  trust?'  'Yes.' — 
'  You  remember  David  says,  Yea,  though  I  walk  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil, 
for  thou  art  vciih  me.  He  could  not  have  had  a  better 
reason  than  this  lor  fearing  no  evil  V  '  No.' — '  And  this 
is  the  reason  why  j/o?<  fear  no  evil?'  'Yes.' — 'When 
God,  in  the  bible,  tells  us  not  to  tear,  he  always  gives 
us  a  good  reason  why  we  should  not.  Fear  not :  for  I 
am  the  tirst  and  the  last,  and  the  living  one  ;  and  I  was 
dead,  and  behold  1  am  alive  for  evermore ;  and  have 
the  keys  of  hell  and  of  death.  Fear  not,  for  1  am  with 
thee  ;  be  not  dismayed,  for  I  am  thy  God  ;  1  will  strength- 
en thee  ;  yea,  I  will  help  thee  :  yea,  I  will  uphold  thee 
nith  the  right  hand  of  my  righteousness.  You  are  en- 
abled, I  hope,  to  resign  yourself  to  his  blessed  will  ?' 
•  Yes.' '  You  like  to  hear  of  Jesus  Christ  and  his  sal- 
vation ?'    '  Yes.' 

"  Such  were  the  pleasing  indications  of  the  frame 
of  his  spirit  in  dying;  and  we  could  only  regret  that 
the  nature  of  his  disorder  prevented  the  more  full  ex- 
pression of  it. 

"  I  ought  to  add,  that  no  patient  could  be  more 
thoroughly  submissive.  From  the  commencement  to 
the  termination  of  his  distemper,  he  never  gave  the 
slightest  indication,  by  word,  or  look,  or  sign,  of  impa- 


315 

tience,  or  repining-,  or  discomposure,  or  of  even  a  mo- 
mentary reluctance  to  do,  to  take,  or  to  bear,  whatev- 
er was  prescribed  for  him.  It  arose  from  that  firmness 
of  mind  which  always  distinguished  him,  accompanied 
by  a  sense  of  propriety  and  duty,  and  a  spirit  of  pious 
resignation." 

At  Glasgow,  I  received  all  the  attentions  which 
could  be  afforded  by  the  friends,  companions  and  pre- 
ceptors of  my  departed  child  ;  many  of  whom  accom- 
panied me,  with  mourning  hearts,  to  his  last  earthly 
home,  in  the  yard  of  the  North  Church  ;  where  his  re- 
mains were  deposited,  "  to  mingle  with  the  dust — I  was 
going  to  say,  of  strangers — but  my  heart  refuses  the 
word — I  will  rather  say — o(  friends,  although  at  a  dis- 
tance from  his  father's  sepulchres.  Those  who  had 
been  laid  in  the  same  halIo»ved  spot  before  him  were, 
it  is  true,  unacquainted  with  him,  and  he  with  them  : 
but  they  were  the  kindred  of  such  as  knew  and  loved 
him  well,  and  whose  ashes  will  in  a  short  time  be  suc- 
cessively joined  to  his  own."* — There,  to  use  my  dear 
child's  own  words,  on  a  similar  occasion, — there, 

*'  The  silent  grave  has  claim'd  her  share  of  clay, 
And  guards  it  till  the  great  delivering  day." 

To  his  fellow-students  of  the  Natural  Philosophy 
Class,  I  am  indebted  for  the  following  tender  and  beau- 
tiful address,  presented  to  me  the  morning  after  my  ar- 
rival. 

*  Dr  Wardlaw's  Preface. 


316 


Rev.  Sir. 

At  a  moment  when  you  must  labor  under 
the  most  acute  feelings  of  parental  sorrow,  it  would  be 
unpardonable  to  intrude,  if  we  were  not  assured  that  no 
allusion  to  that  lamented  event  which  has,  unhappily, 
been  its  occasion,  can  add  to  its  poignancy,  or  increase 
its  power  to  absorb  the  mind. 

We  are  aware,  indeed,  that  the  highest  alleviation 
under  so  severe  a  stroke  as  that  which  has  deprived 
you  of  a  beloved  son — and  of  such  a  son  as  it  falls  to 
the  lot  of  few  fathers  to  possess, — must  arise  from  sour- 
ces superior  to  that  of  human  sympathy,  however  gen- 
uine ;  and  we  trust  that  such  alleviation  will  be  propor- 
tioned to  the  weight  of  that  affliction  which  you  endure  : 
still  we  cannot  refrain  from  expressing  our  heartfelt 
condolence  in  that  loss  which  we  all  mourn,  and  giving 
utterance  to  those  feelings  of  deep  regret,  which  we 
cherish  for  one,  now,  alas  !  no  more. 

As  his  fellow  students,  we  could  not  but  be  intimate- 
ly acquainted  with  his  intellectual  endowments,  which 
were  of  the  highest  order;  and  many  of  us  were  not 
less  aware  of  the  qualities  of  his  heart. 

It  must  be  a  subject  of  unfeigned  regret  to  all  who 
know  of  the  event  which  we  so  much  deplore,  that 
those  talents  and  virtues,  which  had  raised  their  lament- 
ed possessor  to  such  an  elevation  among  his  fellow  stu- 
dents, and  which  seemed  destined,  ere  long,  to  adorn 
the  bar,  or,  perhaps,  eventually,  the  senate  of  our 
country,  have  become  prematurely  the  prey  of  death- 


317 

It  is  but  doing  justice  to  that  moral  and  intellectual 
worth,  the  loss  ot^  which  has  filled  us  with  mingled  sor- 
row and  surprise,  to  say,  that  the  College  has  lost  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  members  that  ever  composed 
its  classes;  and  that  society  is  deprived  of  one,  who,  in 
the  hope  and  expectation  of  all,  would  have  proved  to 
it  a  bright  and  useful  ornament. 

VVc  trust,  Sir,  that  we  shall  not  be  thought  to  have 
violated  the  sacredness  of  parental  grief,  in  thus  ex- 
pressing our  sincere  and  united  sentiments  on  this  mel- 
ancholy occasion  ;  and  in  giving  a  pledge,  in  which  we 
are  persuaded  the  whole  College  joins,  of  the  affection- 
ate veneration,  in  which  we  embalm  the  memory  of 
our  late  and  regretted  friend  and  companion,  whose  ex- 
cellencies and  attainments  were  so  remarkable,  and  so 
far  above  his  years. 

Believe  us  to  remain, 

Rev.  Sir, 

Your's  with  true  sympathy  and  respect, 

The  Students  of  the  Natural  Phil.  Class. 

Glasgow  College, 

Nov.  30,  1821.  FrAivklin  Baker,  Censor. 


1  WILL  not  fatigue  and  offend  the  reader  by  a  detail 
of  my  melancholy  return — rendered,  indeed,  less  mel- 
ancholy as  far  as  Manchester,  by  the  company  of  a  dear 
friend  and  relative,*  who,  with  considerable   inconve- 

Rev.  J.  A.  Coombs. 


318 

nience  to  himself,  took  a  journe  yfrom  thence  to  Glas- 
gow,  on  purpose  to  soothe  my  anguish  on  the  way  back. 
At  Birmingham,  Bristol,  and  every  place  at  which  1 
rested,  the  tenderest  sympathy  and  most  unremitted  at- 
tentions of  friends  awaited  me.  From  several  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  from  churchmen  and  dissenters,  from  lay- 
men and  ministers,  I  have  received  letters  of  warmest 
friendship,  and,  I  believe,  of  sincere  condolence.  And 
though  one  of  xnj  afTectionate  correspondents  remarks, 
in  language  perfectly  characteristic  of  the  writer,  "  I 
will  not  apply  the  poor  mechanism  of  words  to  a  case 
which  nothing  but  the  consolations  of  God  can  reach  ;" 
he  may  rest  assured  that  the  wisdom,  which  those  words 
have  contained, — the  affection  of  heart,  which  they 
have  expressed, — the  assurances  of  kind  remembrance 
at  a  throne  of  grace,  which  they  have  given, — have 
afforded  me  a  large  portion  of  those  consolations,  which 
God  has  mixed  in  this  my  bitterest  cup.  To  my  own 
congregation,  whose  affection  wanted  not  this  fresh 
stimulus  to  render  it  all  that  was  gratifying,  I  owe  more 
than  I  can  express.  And  I  hope  that,  through  their 
prayer  to  God  for  me,  1  may  repay  their  kindnesses,  by 
conferring  upon  them,  in  my  future  ministry,  far  great- 
er benefits  than  any  which  I  have  yet  been  the  instru- 
ment of  communicating.  Several  funeral  sermons  were 
preached  on  the  occasion  of  his  death  in  neighbouring 
towns ;  for  which,  as  an  expression  of  respect  for  my 
family — I  take  this  opportunity  of  presenting  thanks  to 
my  brethren;  at  the  same  time,  offering  my  fervent 
prayer  to  Him,  "  from  whom  cometh  every  good  and 
perfect  gift,"  that   He  would   pour  forth  an  abundant 


319 

measure  of  grace  on  the  youth  of  their  respective  con- 
gregations. 

Home — once  so  cheerful,  so  delightful — now  render- 
ed so  desolate — Home, 

"  Whose  echoes  and  whose  empty  tread 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead  ;" 

I  trembled  to  approach.  Every  object  there  was  con- 
nected with  my  almost  idolized  family — a  family  which, 
under  every  conceivable  or  possible  circumstance,  must 
continue  to  be  equally  dear  to  my  affections — my  sister, 
wife,  and  child.  But  duty  called  me  ;  and  in  somewhat 
less  than  three  weeks  from  my  departure,  1  revisited 
an  abode  that  hud  never,  till  then,  been  totally  cheer- 
less. 

Memory  has,  for  a  season  at  least,  lost  nearly  all  its 
pleasures.  Whether  they  shall,  under  any  circumstan- 
ces, return,  experience  alone  can  decide.  It  now  per- 
forms its  office  with  a  dreadful  fidelity.  I  shrink  from 
its  reviews,  yet  indulge  them  ;  they  torture  me,  yet  I 
cherish  them.  Instead,  however,  of  sinking  into  a  state 
of  morbid  sensibility;  1  would  study  to  derive,  from  my 
severe  afflictions,  an  increased  ardor  in  discharging  the 
duties  of  life,  as  a  christian  and  a  minister  of  the  gos- 
pel : — yet,  to  suppress  sorrows,  so  natural ;  to  attempt 
not  to  feel  ;  would  be  a  folly  approaching  to  madness. 
I  do  feel,  because  God  has  called  me  to  feel — but,  from 
this  death  of  my  child,  and  the  death  of  my  entire  house- 
hold, I  will  take  refuge  in  the  death  of  my  best  Friend, 
who  "gave  himself  a  ransom  for  many;"  and  whose 
word  ensures,  both  to  the  departed  and  to  myself,  a  life 
eternal,  and  unmixed  with  sorrow. 


320 

And  now,  ye  beloved  sister,  son  and  wife,  who  have 
preceded  me  in  your  flight  to  glory,  farewell,  farewell ; 
but  not  for  ever  ! — I  will  endeavor,  in  dependence  upon 
that  strength  and  grace  which  sustained  and  sanctified 
you — to  follow  your  footsteps  with  more  exactness  than 
1  have  hitherto  done.  And  if  your  deaths  but  quicken 
me  to  greater  circumspection,  activity  and  usefulness, 
I  will  dry  up  my  tears,  or  smile  from  amidst  them  ;  I 
will  bless  God  for  all  the  pleasure  and  profit  he  afford- 
ed me  by  your  presence  on  earth;  and  even  thank  Him 
that,  to  accomplish  so  much  good.  He  has  taken  you 
away  from  me  to  heaven  !  But  while  I  mark  your  as- 
cent  to  glory, — congratulate  you  on  not  having  to  weep 
for  me  as  I  now  weep, — and  say  to  "  your  God  and  my 
God,  to  your  Father,  and  my  Father,  Thy  will  be  done" 
— I  must  add,  in  the  beautiful  and  pious  language  of 
one,*  over  whose  almost  magic  pages,  we  have,  often 
rapt  in  admiration,  spent  so  many  hours  together; — 
"  Lord,  if  thou  wilt  support  me,  I  will  for  ever  praise 
thee  :  if  thou  wilt  suffer  the  load  to  press  me  yet  more 
heavily,  I  will  cry  unto  thee,  and  complain  unto  my 
God  ;  and  at  last  I  will  lie  down  and  die ;  and  hy  thy 
mercies,  and  intercession  of  tlie  holy  Jesus,  and  the  con- 
duct of  thy  blessed  Spirit,  pass  into  those  regions,  where 
holy  souls  rest,  and  weep  no  more.'" 

*  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor. 


THE  END. 


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